LARRY   EVANS 


ONCE  To  EVERY  MAN 


BY 

LARRY    EVANS 


ILLUSTRATED  BY 
ANTON  OTTO  FISCHER 


New  York 
THE  H.  K.  FLY  COMPANY 

Publishers 


Copyright,    1913,  by 
The  Metropolitan  Magazine  Company. 

Copyright,  1914,  by 
The  Metropolitan  Magazine  Company. 

Copyright,  1914,  by 
The  H.  K.  Fly  Company. 


TO 
MINE  OWN   PEOPLE 


OOOOVV 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

"It  Was  for  Me— You  Went.  Don't  You 
— Didn't  You  Know  It  Was — Just  Be 
cause  of  You — That  I  Wanted  Them — 
At — All?" Frontispiece 

"Hold  Me  Tight— Oh,  Hold  Me  Tighter! 
for  They  Forgot  Me,  Too,  Denny;  They 
Forgot  Me,  Too !" Page  53 

"Dryad,  It's  All  Right — It's  Always  Been 
All    Right— With    Us!      They   Lied- 
They  Lied  and  They  Knew  They  Were 
Lying!" Page    87 

"What  You  Need,  Gentlemen,  is  a  Trifle 
Wider  Readin'— Just  a  Trifle  !  For  You 
Ain't  Bein' Well  Posted  on  Facts!"  .  Page  149 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

CHAPTER  I 

THE  most  remarkable  thing  about  the  boy  was 
his  eyes — that  is,  if  any  man  with  his  spread 
of  shoulder  and  masculine  grace  of  flat  muscled 
hips  could  be  spoken  of  any  longer  as  a  boy,  merely 
because  his  years  happened  to  number  twenty-four. 

They,  however — the  eyes — were  gray;  not  a  too 
light,  off-color,  gleaming  gray,  but  more  the  tone  of 
slate,  deep  when  one  chanced  to  find  oneself  peering 
deep  into  them.  And  they  were  old.  Any  sponta 
neity  of  youth  which  might  have  flashed  from  them 
at  one  time  had  faded  entirely  and  left  a  sort  of  wist 
ful  sophistry  behind,  an  almost  plaintive  hunger  which 
made  the  pity  of  his  shoulder-stoop — still  mercifully 
only  a  prophecy  of  what  the  next  twenty  years  of  toil 
might  leave  it — an  even  more  pitiful  thing.  His  sheer 
bigness  should  have  been  still  unspoiled;  instead  it 
was  already  beginning  to  lose  its  rebound;  it  was 
growing  imperceptibly  slack,  like  the  springy  stride 
of  a  colt  put  too  soon  to  heavy  harness. 

Late  afternoon  was  giving  way  to  nightfall — a 
long  shadowed  twilight  that  was  heavy  with  the  scent 
of  spring  in  spite  of  the  scattered  patches  of  wet 
snow  that  still  lurked  in  the  swamp  holes.  As  the 


io  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

boy  stood,  facing  toward  the  east  and  the  town  that 
sprawled  in  the  hollow,  his  great,  shoulder-heavy 
body  loomed  almost  like  a  painted  figure  against  the 
cool  red  background  of  the  horizon.  Even  in  spite 
of  the  pike-pole  which  he  grasped  in  one  hand  and 
the  vividly  checkered  blanket  coat  that  wrapped  him, 
the  illusion  was  undeniable.  Stripped  of  them  and 
equipped  instead  with  a  high  steeple-crowned  hat  and 
wide  buckled  shoes,  his  long  half-saddened  face  and 
lean  body  might  have  been  a  composite  of  all  the 
Puritan  fathers  who  had  wrestled  with  the  rock- 
strewn  acres  behind  him,  two  hundred  years  and 
more  before. 

Denny  Bolton  wTas  waiting — Young  Denny,  the 
townsfolk  preferred  to  call  him,  to  distinguish  him 
from  Old  Denny  of  the  former  generation.  Some 
how,  although  he  had  never  mentioned  it  to  anybody, 
it  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  always  been  waiting 
for  something — he  hardly  knew  just  what  it  was  him 
self — just  something  that  was  drearily  slow  in  the 
coming. 

His  home,  the  farmhouse  of  the  Boltons,  for  which 
the  straggling  village  of  Boltonwood  below  had  been 
named,  was  nearest  of  all  the  outlying  places  on  the 
post  route,  yet  last  of  all  to  be  served,  for  when  the 
rural  delivery  had  been  established  they  had  begun 
delivery  at  the  other  end  of  the  circle.  Young  Denny 
never  been  able  to  understand  quite  why  it  was 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  n 

so — but  it  was,  for  all  that.  And  with  the  minister, 
too,  it  happened,  although  not  so  often,  for  the  min 
ister  of  Boltonwood  called  at  almost  every  door  on 
his  rounds  and  stayed  longer  at  each,  so  sometimes  for 
months  at  a  time  he  never  got  around  to  the  shabby 
place  on  the  hill  at  all.  But  the  boy  believed  that  he 
did  understand  this  and  often  he  smiled  to  himself 
over  it,  without  any  bitterness — just  smiled  half  wist 
fully.  He  lived  alone  in  the  tumble-down  old  house 
and  did  his  own  cooking  and — well,  even  a  most 
zealous  man  of  the  gospel  might  have  beamed  more 
heartily  upon  better  cooks  than  was  Denny,  without 
any  great  qualms  of  conscience. 

One  other  reason  existed,  or  at  least  Young  Denny 
imagined  that  it  did,  but  whenever  he  stopped  to 
think  about  it — a  thing  he  had  come  to  do  more  and 
more  often  in  the  last  few  months — he  never  smiled. 
Instead,  his  lips  straightened  until  the  wistful  quirk 
at  the  corners  disappeared  into  a  straight  line  and 
his  eyes  smouldered  ominously. 

There  was  a  select  circle  of  white-haired  old  men 
— the  village  old  guard — which  sat  in  nightly  session 
about  the  fat-bellied  old  wood-stove  in  the  Bolton 
wood  Tavern.  It  convened  with  the  first  snowfall 
of  the  winter  and  broke  up  long  after  the  ice  had 
gone  out  in  the  spring;  and  this  circle,  when  all  other 
topics  had  been  whipped  over  at  fever  heat,  until  all 
the  zest  of  bitter  contradiction  was  gone  from  them, 


12  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

always  turned  at  last  with  a  delightful  sort  of  una 
nimity  to  the  story  of  the  night  when  Old  Denny  had 
died — the  Bolton  of  the  former  generation. 

An  almost  childish  enthusiasm  tinged  their  keen 
relish  for  the  tale.  They  squirmed  and  puckered 
their  wrinkled  old  faces  and  shivered  convulsively, 
just  as  a  child  might  have  shivered  over  a  Bluebeard 
horror,  as  they  recalled  how  Old  Denny  had  moaned 
in  agony  one  moment  that  night,  and  then  screamed 
horribly  the  next  for  the  old  stone  demijohn  that 
always  stood  in  the  corner  of  the  kitchen.  They  re 
membered,  with  an  almost  astonishing  wealth  of 
detail,  that  he  had  frothed  at  the  mouth  and  blas 
phemed  terribly  one  instant,  and  then  wept,  in  the 
very  same  breath — wept  hopelessly,  like  the  uncouth, 
overgrown,  frightened  boy  who  knelt  at  the 
bedside. 

The  strangest  part  of  the  whole  thing  was  that  not 
one  of  them  had  realized  at  the  time,  or  ever  recalled 
since,  that  Old  Denny's  eyes  were  sane  when  he  wept 
that  night  and  blurred  with  madness  when  he  cursed. 
But  then,  too,  that  would  have  smashed  the  dramatic 
element  of  the  whole  tale  to  flinters.  They  never 
missed  a  scene  or  a  sob,  however,  in  the  re-telling, 
and  they  always  ended  it  with  an  ominous  tilt  of  the 
head  and  a  little  insinuating  crook  of  the  neck  toward 
the  battered,  weather-torn  old  house  where  Young 
Denny  had  lived  on  alone  since  that  last  bad  night. 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  13 

It  was  very  much  as  though  they  had  said  aloud, 
"He's  the  next — he'll  go  just  like  the  rest." 

Perhaps  they  never  really  thought  of  it,  and  per 
haps  it  was  because  Young  Denny's  failure  to  fulfil 
their  prophecy  had  really  embittered  them,  but  the 
whole  village  had  given  the  boy  plenty  of  solitude  in 
the  last  few  years  in  which  to  become  on  terms  of 
thorough  intimacy  with  the  demijohn  which  still  oc 
cupied  its  place  in  the  kitchen  corner. 

And  yet  that  stone  demijohn  was  almost  the  only 
tangible  reminder  there  was  left  of  the  Bolton  who 
had  gone  before.  There  were  a  few  in  the  village 
who  wondered  how,  in  the  three  intervening  years, 
the  big  silent,  shambling  boy  had  managed  to  tear 
from  his  acres  money  enough  to  clear  the  place  of 
its  debt — the  biggest  thing  by  far  in  his  heritage. 
Eight  hundred  dollars  was  a  large  sum  in  Boltonwood 
— and  Denny's  acres  were  mostly  rocks.  Old  Denny 
would  have  sold  the  last  scythe  and  fork  in  the 
dilapidated  barn  to  fill  the  stone  jug,  save  for  the 
fact  that  fork  and  scythe  had  themselves  been  too 
dilapidated  to  find  a  purchaser. 

But  the  same  scythe  had  an  edge  now  and  a  polish 
where  the  boy's  hands  had  gripped  and  swung  it,  and 
it  took  a  flawlessly  clear-grained  piece  of  ash  to 
make  a  shaft  that  would  stand  the  forkfuls  of  hay 
which  his  shoulders  heaved,  without  any  apparent 
effort,  into  the  mow.  The  clapboards  on  the  house, 


i4  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

although  still  unpainted,  no  longer  whined  in  the 
wind;  they  were  all  nailed  tight.  And  still  the  circle 
around  the  stove  in  the  Boltonwood  Tavern  tilted  its 
head — tilted  it  ominously — as  if  to  say:  "Just  wait 
a  bit,  he'll  come  to  it — wait  now  and  see !"  But  the 
prophecy's  fulfilment,  long  deferred,  was  making 
them  still  more  bitter — strangely  bitter — toward  the 
boy,  who  stood  alone  at  sundown  watching  the  road 
that  wound  up  from  the  village. 

All  this  Young  Denny  knew,  not  because  he  had 
been  told,  but  because  the  part  of  him  that  was  still 
boy  sensed  it  intuitively.  He  was  just  as  happy  to 
be  let  alone,  or  at  least  so  he  told  himself,  times 
without  end,  for  it  gave  him  a  chance  to  sleep.  And 
tonight  as  he  stood  at  the  crest  of  the  hill  before  the 
dark  house,  waiting  for  Old  Jerry  to  come  along 
with  the  mail,  he  was  glad,  too,  that  his  place  was 
the  last  on  the  route.  It  gave  him  something  to 
look  forward  to  during  the  day — something  to  expect 
— for  although  he  rarely  received  a  letter  or,  to  be 
more  exact,  never,  the  daily  newspaper  was,  after 
all,  some  company.  And  then  there  were  the  new 
farm  implement  catalogues  and  seed  books,  with  their 
dyspeptic  looking  fruits  and  vegetables.  They  made 
better  reading  than  nothing  at  all. 

But  it  was  not  the  usual  bundle  of  papers  which 
came  at  the  end  of  each  week  for  which  Young 
Denny  was  waiting.  Old  Jerry,  who  drove  the  post 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  1 5 

route,  and  had  driven  it  as  long  as  Denny  could 
remember,  was  late  tonight — he  was  even  later  than 
usual  for  Saturday  night — and  Denny's  hand 
tightened  nervously  upon  the  shaft  of  the  pike-pole 
as  he  realized  the  cause  of  the  delay. 

For  many  weeks  he  had  heard  but  little  else  men 
tioned  on  the  village  streets  on  his  infrequent  trips 
after  groceries  and  grain.  The  winter  sledding  was 
over;  the  snow  had  gone  off  a  month  back  with  the 
first  warm  rain;  just  that  afternoon  he  had  made  the 
last  trip  behind  his  heavy  team  down  from  the  big 
timber  back  on  the  ridges,  but  during  that  month  the 
other  drivers  with  whom  he  had  been  hauling  logs 
since  fall  had  talked  of  nothing  but  the  coming  event. 

From  where  he  stood,  looking  out  across  the  valley, 
Young  Denny  could  see  the  huge  bulk  of  the  Maynard 
homestead — Judge  Maynard's  great  box  of  a  house — 
silhouetted  against  the  skyline,  and  back  of  it  high 
piles  of  timber — framing  and  sheathing  for  the  new 
barn  that  was  going  up.  For  Judge  Maynard  was 
going  to  give  a  barn-raising — an  old-fashioned  barn- 
raising  such  as  the  hill  country  had  not  seen  in  twenty 
years. 

Already  Young  Denny  knew  that  there  were  to 
be  two  team  captains  who  would  choose  from  among 
the  best  men  that  the  country  boasted,  the  very  pick 
of  strength  and  endurance  and  daring.  And  these, 
when  the  word  was  given,  would  swarm  up  with 


16  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

mallet  and  lock-pin  over  their  half  of  the  allotted 
work,  in  the  race  to  drive  home  the  last  spike  and 
wedge  into  place  the  last  scantling.  For  days  now 
with  a  grave  sort  of  satisfaction  which  he  hardly 
understood  himself,  Young  Denny  had  time  after 
time  put  all  his  strength  against  a  reluctant  log,  skid 
ding  timber  back  on  the  hillside,  and  watched  the 
lithe  pike-pole  bend  half  double  under  the  steadily 
increasing  strain.  Somehow  he  felt  very  sure  that 
one  or  the  other  of  the  captains  would  single  him 
out;  they  couldn't  afford  to  pass  him  by. 

But  in  that  one  respect  only  was  Judge  Maynard's 
barn-raising  to  be  like  those  that  had  passed  down 
into  history  a  score  of  years  back.  Every  other  de 
tail,  as  befitted  the  hospitality  of  the  wealthiest  man 
in  the  hill  country,  was  planned  on  a  scale  of  mag 
nificence  before  unheard  of,  and  Denny  Bolton  stood 
and  touched  furtively  with  the  tip  of  his  tongue  lips 
that  were  dry  with  the  glamour  of  it  all. 

It  was  to  be  a  masquerade — the  dance  which  fol 
lowed  on  the  wide,  clean  floors — not  the  kind  of  a 
masquerade  which  the  church  societies  gave  from  time 
to  time  to  eke  out  the  minister's  salary  and  which, 
while  he  had  never  attended,  Young  Denny  had  often 
heard  described  as  "poverty-parties,"  because  every 
body  wore  the  oldest  of  his  old  clothes — but  a  marvel- 
ously  brilliant  thing  of  hired  costumes.  It  did  not 
mean  so  much  to  him,  this  last,  and  yet  as  he  thought 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  17 

of  it  his  tight  lips  twisted  into  a  slow  smile  and  his 
eyes  swung  from  their  hungry  contemplation  of  the 
great  Maynard  house  to  a  little  clump  of  brushwood 
which  made  a  darker  blot  against  the  black  shadow 
of  the  hill  from  the  crest  of  which  the  Judge's  place 
dominated  the  surrounding  country.  Little  by  little 
Denny  Bolton's  lean  face  lost  its  hint  of  hardness; 
the  lines  that  ran  from  his  thin  nose  to  the  corners 
of  his  lips  disappeared  as  he  smiled — smiled  with 
whimsical  gentleness — at  the  light  that  glimmered 
from  a  single  window  through  the  tangled  bushes, 
twinkling  back  at  him  unblinkingly. 

There  was  a  tiny  cottage  behind  that  light,  a  little 
drab  cottage  of  a  half  dozen  rooms.  It  stood,  un- 
painted  and  unkempt,  in  a  wedge-shaped  acre  of 
neglected  garden  which,  between  high  weeds  and 
uncut  shrubbery,  had  long  before  gone  to  straggling 
ruin.  And  that  wedge-shaped  acre  which  cut  a  deep 
fissure  in  the  edge  of  the  immaculate  pastures  of 
Boltonwood's  wealthiest  citizen  was  like  a  barbed 
thorn  in  Judge  Maynard's  side. 

The  latter  was  not  a  judge  in  reality;  partly  the 
size  of  the  cash  balance  which  rumor  whispered  he 
carried  at  the  county  bank,  partly  the  fact  that  he 
was  the  only  lawyer  in  that  section,  had  earned  him 
the  title.  But  every  trick  of  his  tricky  trade  which  he 
could  invent  he  had  brought  against  the  owner  of  that 
little,  dilapidated  cottage  in  a  vain  effort  to  force  him 


1 8  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

to  sell.  And  yet  the  acre  of  neglect  and  ruin  still 
clung  like  an  unsightly  burr  to  the  hem  of  his  smooth- 
rolling  acres. 

The  people  of  Boltonwood  were  given  to  calling 
John  Anderson  a  fool,  and  not  alone  because  he  per 
sisted  in  his  senseless  antagonism  of  a  man  as  great 
in  the  township  as  was  Judge  Maynard.  There  was 
at  least  one  other  reason.  It  was  almost  twenty 
years  now  since  the  day  when  John  Anderson  had 
first  appeared  in  the  stern  old  hill  town,  bringing  with 
him  a  frail  slip  of  a  woman  with  great,  moist  violet- 
blue  eyes  and  tumbled  yellow  hair,  whose  very  white 
and  gold  prettiness  had  seemed  to  their  puritanical 
eyes  the  flaunting  of  an  ungodly  thing.  There  was 
a  transparent  pallor  in  her  white  skin  and  heavy 
shadows  beneath  her  big  dark  eyes  that  made  them 
seem  even  larger  and  duskier.  A  whispered  rumor 
went  around  that  she  was  not  too  strong — that  it 
was  the  brisk  keen  air  for  which  John  Anderson  had 
brought  her  to  the  hills. 

The  little  drab  cottage  had  been  white  then  and 
there  was  scarcely  a  day  but  what  the  passers-by  saw 
the  slender  girl,  in  soft  fluttering  things  that  con 
trasted  painfully  with  their  dingy  calico,  the  thick 
gleaming  mass  of  hair  that  crowned  her  head  wind- 
tossed  into  her  eyes,  standing  with  her  face  buried 
in  an  armful  of  crimson  blossoms  in  the  same  garden 
where  the  weeds  were  now  breast  high,  or  running 


19 

with  mad,  childish  abandon  between  the  high  hedge 
rows.  And  many  a  night  after  it  was  too  dark  to 
see  they  heard  the  man's  heavier  bass  underrunning 
the  light  treble  of  her  laughter  which,  to  their  sen 
sitive  ears,  was  never  quite  free  from  a  tinge  of 
mockery. 


CHAPTER  II 

FOR  a  year  or  more  it  was  like  that,  and  then 
the  day  came  which,  with  dawn,  found  John 
Anderson  changed  into  a  gray-haired,  white- 
faced  man,  whose  eyes  always  seemed  to  be  looking 
beyond  one,  and  who  spoke  but  seldom,  even  when 
he  was  spoken  to.  During  the  month  that  followed 
that  night  hardly  a  person  in  the  village  heard  a 
word  pass  his  lips,  except,  perhaps,  those  members 
of  the  church  societies  who  had  volunteered  to  help 
care  for  the  baby. 

He  locked  himself  up  in  the  small  shop  which  oc 
cupied  the  back  room  of  the  house  and  day  after  day 
he  worked  there  alone  in  a  deadly  quiet,  strangely  me 
chanical  fashion.  Sometimes  far  into  the  night  they 
heard  the  tap-tap  of  his  mallet  as  he  chipped  away, 
bit  by  bit,  on  a  slender  shaft  of  white  marble,  until 
more  than  one  man  in  those  days  shook  his  head 
dubiously  and  vouchsafed  his  neighbor  the  informa 
tion  that  John  Anderson  "wa'n't  quite  right." 

A  month  passed  during  which  the  steady  chip-chip 
scarcely  ever  ceased;  and  yet,  when  the  work  was 
finally  finished  and  set  up  over  the  fresh  little  mound 
in  the  grounds  behind  the  church,  and  they  came  to 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  2 1 

stand  before  it,  they  found  nothing  ready  for  them 
to  say.  For  once  the  tongues  of  the  hillsfolk  were 
sobered  into  silence. 

It  was  like  her — that  slim  little  white  statue — so 
like  her  in  its  pallor  and  frailty  of  feature  and  limb 
that  they  only  gasped  and  then  fell  to  whispering 
behind  their  hands  at  the  resemblance.  And  some 
how,  too,  as  they  stared,  their  faces  failed  to  harden 
as  they  had  always  hardened  before,  whenever  they 
rebuked  her  slim,  elfish  untidiness,  for  upon  the  face 
of  stone,  which  was  the  face  of  his  wife,  John  Ander 
son's  chisel  had  left  a  fleeting,  poignantly  wistful 
smile  that  seemed  touched  with  the  glory  of  the  Virgin 
Mother  herself. 

They  merely  stood  and  stared — the  townsfolk — 
and  yet  they  only  half  understood,  for  when  it  was 
noised  about  the  street  a  few  days  later  that  John 
Anderson  had  given  up  forever  his  occupation  of 
chiseling  tombstones  for  the  bleak  Boltonwood  cem 
etery — an  occupation  which  at  least  had  yielded  him 
a  bare  living — and  had  locked  himself  up  in  that 
back  room  to  "putter  with  lumps  of  clay,"  he  was 
instantly  convicted  of  being  queer  in  the  eyes  of  the 
entire  thrifty  community,  even  without  his  senseless 
antagonism  of  the  Judge  in  the  years  that  followed 
to  clinch  the  verdict. 

After  the  first  few  weeks  that  followed  that  night 
the  village  saw  less  and  less  of  the  man  who  went 


22  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

on  living  alone  in  the  small  white  cottage  with  only 
the  child  to  keep  him  company — the  girl-child  whom 
he  had  named  Dryad,  perhaps  in  a  blind,  groping 
hunger  for  beauty,  perhaps  in  sheer  revolt  against 
the  myriad  Janes  and  Anns  and  Marthas  about  him. 
His  hair  was  snow  white  before  she  was  half  grown; 
he  was  an  old  man,  wrinkled  of  face  and  vacant  of 
eye,  who  bent  always  over  the  bench  in  his  back 
room  shop  too  engrossed  with  his  work  even  to  note 
that,  day  by  day,  her  face  and  slim  body  and  tumbled 
yellow  hair  grew  more  and  more  like  the  face  which 
was  always  smiling  up  at  him  from  the  shaping  clay 
or  marble. 

Months  passed  before  he  opened  his  lips  again 
for  speech.  Then  he  began  to  talk;  he  began  to 
murmur  little,  disjointed  intimate  phrases  of  endear 
ment  to  the  stone  face  growing  under  his  fingers — 
phrases  that  were  more  than  half  unintelligible  to 
strange  ears — until  as  the  habit  grew  there  came  long 
periods,  days  at  a  time,  when  he  carried  on  an  un 
cannily  one-sided  conversation  with  the  empty  air  be 
fore  him,  or,  as  the  villagers  often  hinted,  with  some 
one  whom  his  eyes  alone  could  see. 

But  as  the  years  went  by  even  this  novelty  lost  its 
spice  with  long  familiarity.  The  cottage  at  the  edge 
of  town  went  from  straggling  neglect  to  utter  ruin, 
but  John  Anderson  still  clung  to  it  with  a  senseless 
stubbornness  over  which  they  often  shook  their  heads 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  23 

in  pity — in  heartfelt  commiseration  for  the  Judge  who 
had  to  endure  this  eyesore  at  his  very  doors,  in  spite 
of  all  his  shrewdness  or  the  reputed  size  of  his  balance 
at  the  County  National. 

But  if  time  had  dimmed  their  interest  in  the  father, 
it  had  only  served  to  whet  their  keen  curiosity  over 
the  girl,  who,  in  the  intervening  eighteen  years,  had 
changed  from  a  half-starved,  half-clad  child  that 
flashed  through  the  thickets  like  a  wild  thing,  into  a 
long  slender-limbed  creature  with  wide,  duskily  violet 
eyes  and  shimmering,  tumbled  hair — a  creature  of 
swift,  passionate  moods  who,  if  they  could  only  have 
known  it,  was  startlingly  like  the  wild  things  for 
which  he  had  named  her. 

They  were  not  given  to  the  reading  of  heathen 
mythology,  the  people  of  Boltonwood,  and  so  they 
could  not  know.  But  with  every  passing  day  they 
did  realize  that  Dryad  Anderson's  fiercely  wistful 
little  face  was  growing  more  and  more  like  that  of 
the  little  statue  in  the  grounds  behind  the  church — 
the  stone  face  of  John  Anderson's  frail  bride  of  a 
year — long  since  turned  a  dull,  nondescript  gray  by 
the  sun  and  weather. 

She  had  the  same  trick  of  smiling  with  her  eyes 
when  there  was  no  mirth  lurking  in  the  corners  of 
her  full  lips,  the  same  full-throated  little  laugh  that 
carried  the  faintest  hint  of  mockery  in  its  thrill.  Year 
by  year  her  slim  body  lost  its  unformed  boyishness 


24  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

in  a  new  soft  roundness  which  her  long  out 
grown  skirt  and  too  scant  little  waist  failed  completely 
to  conceal.  And  the  hillsfolk  were  given  to  shaking 
their  heads  over  her  now,  just  as  the  generation  before 
had  done,  for  to  cap  it  all — the  last  straw  upon  the 
back  of  their  toleration — Dryad  Anderson  had  "took 
up"  with  Denny  Bolton,  Young  Denny,  the  last  of 
his  name.  Nothing  more  was  needed  to  damn  her 
forever  in  the  eyes  of  the  hills  people,  although  they 
could  not  have  explained  just  why,  even  if  they  had 
tried. 

And  Young  Denny,  waiting  there  in  the  thickening 
dusk  before  his  own  dark  place,  smiled  gravely  back 
at  that  single  blinking  light  in  the  window  of  the 
cottage  squatting  under  the  hill — he  smiled  with 
whimsical  gentleness,  a  man's  smile  that  softened 
somehow  the  hard  lines  of  jaw  and  lip.  It  was  more 
than  three  years  now  since  the  first  night  when  he 
had  stood  and  watched  for  it  to  flash  out  across  the 
valley  before  he  had  turned  and  gone  to  set  a  lamp  in 
the  dark  front  windows  behind  him  in  answer  to  it. 

He  could  never  remember  just  how  they  had 
agreed  upon  that  signal — there  had  never  been  any 
mutual  agreement — but  every  Saturday  night  since 
that  first  one,  three  years  back,  he  had  come  in  from 
his  week's  work,  ploughing  or  planting  or  teaming 
back  in  the  timber  and  waited  for  it  to  call  to  him, 
just  at  dusk,  across  the  valley. 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  25 

His  hand  went  tentatively  to  his  chin,  absently  ca 
ressing  his  lean  cheeks  as  he  remembered  that  day. 
Late  in  the  afternoon  he  had  found  a  rabbit  caught 
fast  in  a  snare  which  he  had  set  deep  in  the  thicket, 
and  the  little  animal  had  squealed  in  terror,  just  as 
rabbits  always  squeal,  when  he  leaned  and  took  it 
from  the  trap.  And  when  he  had  straightened  to  his 
feet  with  it  clutched  fast  in  his  arms,  to  look  for  a 
club  with  which  to  end  its  struggles  quickly,  his  eyes 
had  lifted  to  encounter  the  stormy  eyes  of  the  girl 
who  had  flashed  up  before  him  as  silently  as  a  shadow 
from  the  empty  air. 

Her  two  small  brown  fists  were  tight  clenched 
against  her  breast;  she  was  breathing  in  short  irregu 
lar  gasps  as  if  she  had  been  running  hard. 

At  first  Denny  Bolton  had  been  too  amazed  to  do 
more  than  stare  blankly  into  her  blazing  eyes;  then 
before  that  burning  glare  his  face  began  to  redden 
consciously  and  his  gaze  dropped,  wavering  from  her 
face  to  the  little  blouse  so  long  outgrown  that  it 
strained  far  open  across  the  girl's  round  throat, 
doubly  white  by  contrast  below  the  brown  line  where 
the  clear  tan  ended. 

His  glance  went  down  from  the  fierce  little  face  to 
the  tight  skirt,  shiny  from  long  wear  and  so  short 
that  the  hem  hung  high  above  her  slim  ankles;  and 
from  there  down  to  the  cracked,  broken  shoes,  string- 
laced  and  sized  too  large  for  her  fine  drawn  feet. 


26  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

They  were  old  and  patched — the  stockings — so  thick 
ly  darned  that  there  was  little  of  the  original  fabric 
left,  but  for  all  the  patches  there  were  still  wide 
gashes  in  them,  fresh  torn  by  the  thorns,  through 
which  the  flesh  beneath  showed  very  white. 

Her  face  colored,  too,  as  Young  Denny's  uncom 
fortable  scrutiny  passed  over  her.  It  flamed  pain 
fully  from  throat  to  hair  and  then  went  very  white. 
She  tried  vainly  with  one  hand  to  close  the  gap  at 
her  throat,  while  the  other  struggled  to  settle  the 
dingy  old  skirt  a  little  lower  on  her  childish  hips. 
But  her  hot  eyes  clung  unwaveringly  to  the  boy's 
face.  Suddenly  she  lifted  one  hand  and  pointed  a 
quivering  finger  at  the  furry  mass  palpitating  in  his 
arms. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  with  it?"  she  demanded. 

Young  Denny  started  at  the  question.  The  un 
compromising  directness  of  the  words  startled  him 
even  more  than  had  her  first  swift,  silent  coming. 
Involuntarily,  spasmodically  his  arms  closed  until  the 
rabbit  squealed  again  in  an  ecstasy  of  terror. 

"Why,  I — I  reckon  to  eat  him!"  he  blurted  at  last, 
and  then  his  face  grew  hotter  than  ever  at  the  bald 
ness  of  the  answer. 

It  was  hard  to  follow  the  change  that  flashed  over 
her  face  as  she  became  conscious  of  his  blundering, 
clumsy  embarrassment.  It  came  too  quickly  for  that, 
but  the  angry  light  faded  from  her  eyes  and  her 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  27 

lips  began  to  curve  in  the  faintest  of  quizzical  smiles. 
She  even  forgot  the  too  short  skirt  and  gaping  blouse 
to  raise  both  hands  toward  him  in  coaxing  coquetry. 

"Please  let  him  go,"  she  wheedled  softly.  "Please 
let  him  go — for  me!" 

Young  Denny  backed  away  a  step  from  her  up 
turned  face  and  outstretched  hands,  grinning  a  little 
as  he  slowly  shook  his  head.  It  bewildered  him — 
puzzled  him — this  swift  change  to  supplication. 

"Can't,"  he  refused  laconically.  "I — I  got  to  have 
him  to  eat." 

His  voice  was  calmly  final  and  for  no  other  reason 
than  to  learn  what  she  would  do  next,  because  already 
the  boy  knew  that  the  soft  creature  throbbing  against 
him  was  to  have  its  freedom  again.  No  one,  at 
least  since  he  could  remember,  had  ever  before  smiled 
and  asked  Denny  Bolton  to  "do  it — for  me."  For  one 
flashing  instant  he  saw  her  eyes  flare  at  his  candid 
refusal;  then  they  cleared  again  with  that  same  mirac 
ulous  swiftness.  Once  more  the  corners  of  her  lips 
lifted  pleadingly,  arched  with  guileful,  provocative 
sweetness. 

"Please,"  she  begged,  even  more  softly,  "please 
— because  I  ask  you  to!" 

Once  more  Young  Denny  shook  his  head. 

Standing  there  before  his  dark  house,  still  smiling 
vaguely  at  the  light  across  the  valley  his  fingers  tenta 
tively  caressed  his  lean  cheeks  where  her  fingernails 


28  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

had  bit  deep  through  the  skin  that  day.  He 
never  remembered  how  it  had  happened — it  all  came 
too  swiftly  for  recollection — but  even  before  he  had 
finished  shaking  his  head  the  tempting  smile  had  been 
wiped  from  her  lips,  her  little  face  working  convul 
sively  with  rage,  before  she  sprang  at  him — sprang 
with  lithe,  lightning,  tigerlike  ferocity  that  sent  him 
staggering  back  before  her. 

Her  hands  found  his  face  and  tore  deep  through 
the  skin  before  he  could  lift  his  wide-flung  arms  to 
protect  it.  And  then,  almost  before  he  realized  what 
had  happened,  she  stood  back,  groping  blindly  away 
from  him  until  her  hands  found  a  birch  sapling.  She 
clung  to  it  with  a  desperately  tight  clasp  as  if  to  hold 
herself  erect.  A  little  spot  of  red  flecked  her  own  lip 
where  her  locked  teeth  had  cut  through.  She  swayed 
a  moment,  dizzily,  the  too-tight  little  waist  gaping  at 
her  throat  as  she  struggled  for  breath. 

"There — there!"  she  gasped  at  him  voicelessly. 
"There,"  she  whispered  through  her  white  lips,  "now 
will  you  let  him  go?" 

And  Denny  Bolton  had  stood  that  afternoon  in 
wondering  silence,  gazing  back  into  her  twitching, 
distorted  face  without  a  word  while  the  blood  oozed 
from  the  deep  cuts  in  his  cheeks  and  dripped  noisily 
upon  the  dry  leaves.  Once  he  turned  and  followed 
with  his  eyes  the  mad  flight  of  the  rabbit  through 
the  underbrush;  and  then  turned  slowly  back  to  her. 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  29 

"Why,  he's  gone  already,"  he  stated  with  a  gentle 
gravity  that  was  almost  ponderous.  And  with  a  de 
liberation  which  he  meant  more  to  comfort  than  to 
conciliate:  "I — I  aimed  to  let  him  go,  myself,  right 
from  the  first  time  you  asked  me — after  a  while!" 

She  cried  over  him  that  afternoon — cried  not  as 
he  had  known  other  girls  to  cry,  but  with  long  noise 
less  gasps  that  shook  her  thin  shoulders  terribly.  Her 
eyes  swam  with  great  drops  that  hung  from  her 
lashes  and  went  rolling  silently  down  her  small  face 
while  she  washed  out  the  cuts  with  one  sleeve  ruth 
lessly  wrenched  from  her  blouse  and  soaked  in  the 
brook  nearby. 

But  in  almost  the  same  breath  while  she  crooned 
pityingly  over  him  she  bade  him — commanded  him 
with  a  swift,  fierce  passionate  vehemence — to  tell  her 
that  it  did  not  hurt — did  not  hurt  very  much!  And 
before  she  would  let  him  go  that  day  she  made  him 
promise  to  come  back — she  promised  herself  to  set 
a  light  in  the  front  window  of  the  shabby  little  cot 
tage  to  tell  him  that  she  had  found  the  plaster — that 
there  was  enough  left  to  close  the  cuts. 

There  had  never  been  any  spoken  agreement  be 
tween  them,  but  since  that  night,  three  years  ago, 
Denny  Bolton  had  learned  to  watch  each  week  end, 
just  at  dusk,  for  the  signal  to  appear.  From  the 
first  their  very  loneliness  had  drawn  them  together 
— a  childish,  starved  desire  for  companionship;  and 


30  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

as  time  passed  they  only  clung  the  closer,  each  to  the 
other,  as  jealously  fearful  as  a  marooned  man  and 
woman  might  have  been  of  any  harm  which  might 
come  to  the  one  and  leave  the  other  utterly,  desolately 
alone. 

Winter  and  summer  Denny  Bolton  went  every  Sat 
urday  night,  close  to  nightfall,  and  waited  for  her  to 
come,  except  that  now,  in  the  last  few  weeks  since  the 
first  rumor  of  the  Judge's  big  barn-raising  and  mas 
querade  had  gone  forth,  no  matter  how  early  he 
started  or  how  much  haste  he  made,  he  always  found 
Dryad  Anderson  there  before  him.  For  weeks  no 
other  topic  had  passed  the  girl's  lips,  and  with  each 
recurring  visit  to  the  small  clearing  hidden  back  in 
the  thicket  near  the  brook  the  boy's  wonder  grew. 

Almost  from  the  first  day  she  had  decided  upon 
the  costume  which  she  would  wear.  Night  after  night 
she  sat  and  made  plans  in  a  tumultuous,  bubbling  flood 
of  anticipation  which  he  could  scarcely  follow,  for  it 
was  only  after  long  argument  that  he  had  sheepishly 
surrendered  and  agreed  to  "dress  up"  at  all;  she 
sat  with  a  picture  torn  from  an  old  magazine  across 
her  knees — a  color-plate  of  a  dancing  girl  which  she 
meant  to  copy  for  herself — poring  over  it  with  shining 
eyes,  her  breath  coming  and  going  softly  between 
childishly  curved  lips  as  she  devoured  every  detail  of 
its  construction. 

It  was  a  thing  of  brilliantly  contrasting  colors — 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  3 1 

the  picture  which  she  planned  to  copy — a  sleeveless 
waist  of  dullest  crimson  and  a  much  bespangled  skirt 
of  clinging,  shimmering  black.  And  that  skirt  hung 
clear  to  the  ankles,  swinging  just  high  enough  to 
disclose  the  gleam  of  silken  stockings  and  satiny, 
pointed  slippers,  with  heels  of  absurdly  small  girth. 

The  boy  only  half  understood  the  feverish  hunger 
which  glowed  in  Dryad  Anderson's  face,  piquantly, 
wistfully  earnest  in  the  dull  yellow  lantern  light  as 
she  leaned  forward,  ticking  off  each  item  and  its 
probable  cost  upon  her  fingers,  and  waited  doubtfully 
for  him  to  mock  at  the  expense;  and  yet,  at  that,  he 
understood  far  better  than  any  one  else  could  ever 
have  hoped  to  comprehend,  for  Young  Denny  knew 
too  what  it  was  to  wait — to  wait  for  something  that 
was  drearily  slow  in  the  coming. 

One  other  thing  marked  Judge  Maynard's  proffered 
hospitality  as  totally  different  from  all  the  other  half- 
similar  affairs  which  Boltonwood  had  ever  known. 
There  were  to  be  invitations — written,  mailed  invi 
tations — instead  of  the  usual  placards  tacked  up  in 
the  village  post-office  as  they  always  were  whenever 
any  public  entertainment  was  imminent,  or  the  hap 
hazard  invitations  which  were  passed  along  by  word 
of  mouth  and  which  somehow  they  always  forgot  to 
pass  on  to  the  boy  who  lived  alone  in  the  dark  house 
on  the  hill.  There  were  to  be  formal,  mailed  invita 
tions,  and  Young  Denny  found  it  hard  waiting  that 


32  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

night  for  Old  Jerry,  who  had  never  been  so  late 
before. 

The  cool  red  of  the  horizon  behind  him  faded  to 
a  dusky  gray  and  the  dusk  thickened  from  twilight  to 
dark  while  he  stood  there  waiting,  leaning  heavily 
upon  the  pike-pole,  shifting  more  and  more  uneasily 
from  one  tired  foot  to  the  other.  He  had  turned  at 
last  to  go  and  set  a  light  in  answer  to  the  one  which 
was  calling  insistently  to  him  from  the  blackness  be 
fore  the  Judge's  place  when  the  shrill  squeal  of 
complaining  axles  drifted  up  to  him  from  far  down 
the  long  hill  road. 

Old  Jerry  came  with  exasperating  slowness  that 
night.  The  plodding  ascent  of  the  fat  white  mare  and 
creaking  buggy  was  nerve-rackingly  deliberate.  Young 
Denny  shifted  the  shaft  of  his  pike-pole  to  the  other 
hand  to  wipe  his  damp  palm  against  the  checkered 
coat  as  the  rig  loomed  up  ahead  of  him  in  the  dark 
ness.  Old  Jerry  was  complaining  to  himself  bitterly 
in  a  whining,  cracked  falsetto. 

'Tain't  reg'lar,"  the  boy  heard  him  whimpering. 

'Tain't  accordin'  to  law — not  the  way  I  figger  it, 
it  ain't.  The  Gov'mint  don't  expect  nobody  to  work 
'til  this  hour!" 

The  buggy  came  to  a  standstill,  with  the  little, 
weazened  old  man  leaning  far  out  from  the  torn 
leather  seat,  shading  his  eyes  with  one  unsteady 
hand  while  he  peered  into  the  shadows  searching  for 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  33 

the  big-shouldered  figure  that  stepped  hesitatingly 
nearer  the  wheel.  There  was  something  birdlike  in 
the  brilliancy  of  the  beady  little  eyes;  something  of 
sparrowlike  pertness  in  the  tilt  of  the  old  man's  head, 
perked  far  over  to  one  side. 

"Still  a-waitin',  be  ye?"  he  exclaimed  peevishly. 
"Well,  it's  lucky  you  ain't  been  kept  a-standin'  there 
a  whole  sight  longer — half  the  night,  mebby!  You 
would  a-been,  only  for  my  havin'  an  orig'nal  system 
for  peddlin'  them  letters  that's  all  my  own.  It's  sys 
tem  does  it — but  it  ain't  right,  just  the  same.  The 
Gov'mint  don't  expect  nobody  to  work  more'n  eight 
hours  to  a  stretch,  and  look  at  me,  two  hours  late 
and  I  ain't  home  yet !  I'd  complain,  too — I'd  com 
plain  to  the  authorities  at  Washington,  only — only" 
— his  thin,  high-pitched  voice  dropped  suddenly  to  a 
furtively  conciliating  whisper — "only  a-course  I  don't 
want  to  make  no  trouble  for  the  Judge." 

Denny  Bolton  cleared  his  throat  and  shuffled  his 
feet  uneasily,  but  this  hint  for  haste  was  utterly 
wasted  upon  Old  Jerry.  The  latter  failed  completely 
to  note  the  strained  intensity  of  the  face  that  was 
upturned  before  him  and  went  on  grumbling  as  he 
leaned  over  to  fumble  in  the  box  beneath  the  seat. 
And  the  tirade  continued  in  an  unbroken,  half-muffled 
stream  until  he  straightened  laboriously  again,  the 
boy's  usual  weekly  packet  of  papers  and  catalogues 
in  one  hand. 


34  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

"No,"  he  emphasized  deliberately,  "I  wouldn't 
really  go  so  fur's  that — I  ain't  figgerin'  on  makin' 
no  complaint — not  this  time.  I  got  too  much  regard 
for  the  Judge  to  try  to  get  him  into  any  hot  water. 
But  there  wa'n't  no  real  use  nor  reason  in  his  postin' 
all  them  invitations  to  once.  He  could  a-begun  back 
a  stretch  and  kinda  run  'em  in  easy,  a  little  to  a 
time,  instead  of  lumpin'  'em  this  way,  and  that  would 
a-give  me " 

Young  Denny  reached  out  and  took  the  bundle 
from  the  extended,  unsteady  old  hand.  His  own 
hands  were  shaking  a  little  as  he  broke  the  string 
and  fluttered  swiftly  through  the  half  dozen  papers 
and  pamphlets.  Old  Jerry  never  skipped  a  breath  at 
the  interruption. 

"But  that  finishes  up  the  day — that's  about  the 
last  of  it."  The  thin  voice  became  heavily  tinged 
with  pride.  "There  ain't  nobody  in  the  township 
but  what's  got  his  card  to  that  barn-raising  by  now 
— delivered  right  on  the  nail!  That's  my  system." 
And  then,  judiciously:  "I  guess  it's  a-goin'  to  be  a 
real  fancy  affair,  too,  at  that.  Must  be  it'll  cost  him 
more'n  a  little  mite  before  he  gits  done  feedin'  'em. 
They  was  a  powerful  lot  of  them  invitations." 

Slowly  Denny  Bolton's  head  lifted.  He  stood 
and  stared  into  Old  Jerry's  peaked,  wrinkled  face  as 
if  he  had  only  half  heard  the  rambling  complaint, 
a  strange,  bewildered  light  growing  in  his  eyes. 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  35 

Then  his  gaze  dropped  once  more,  and  a  second  time, 
far  more  slowly,  his  fingers  went  through  the  packet 
of  advertisements.  Old  Jerry  was  leaning  over  to 
unwind  the  reins  from  the  whip-stock  when  the  boy's 
hand  reached  out  and  stopped  him. 

"Ain't  there — wasn't  there  anything  more  for  me 
— to-night?"  Young  Denny  inquired  gravely. 

Jerry  paused  impatiently.  No  other  question  ever 
caused  him  quite  such  keen  irritation,  for  he  felt  that 
it  was  a  slur  at  his  reliability. 

"More !"  he  petulantly  echoed  the  question. 
"More?  Why,  you  got  your  paper,  ain't  you?  Was 
you  expectin'  sunthin'  else?  Wasn't  looking  for  a 
letter,  now  was  you?" 

Denny  backed  slowly  away  from  the  wheel. 
Dumbly  he  stood  and  licked  his  lips.  He  cleared  his 
throat  again  and  swallowed  hard  before  he  an 
swered. 

"No,"  he  faltered  at  last,  with  the  same  level  grav 
ity.  "No,  I  wasn't  exactly  expectin'  a  letter.  But 
I  kind  of  thought — I — I  was  just  hopin' " 

His  grave  voice  trailed  heavily  off  into  silence. 
Eyes  still  numbly  bewildered  he  turned,  leaning  for 
ward  a  little,  to  gaze  out  across  the  valley  at  the 
great  square  silhouette  of  Judge  Maynard's  house 
on  the  opposite  ridge,  while  Old  Jerry  wheeled  the 
protesting  buggy  and  started  deliberately  down  the 
hill.  Just  once  more  the  latter  paused;  he  drew  the 


36  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

fat  gray  mare  to  a  standstill  and  leaned  a  last  time 
far  out  from  the  seat. 

"A-course  I  didn't  mean  nothin'  when  I  spoke 
about  complainin'  against  the  Judge,"  he  called  back. 
"You  know  that,  don't  you,  Denny?  You  know  I 
was  just  jokin',  don't  you?"  A  vaguely  worried, 
appealing  strain  crept  into  the  cracked  accents.  "An' 
a-course  you  wouldn't  say  nothin'  about  my  speakin' 
like  that.  I  think  a  whole  heap  too  much  of  the 
Judge  to  even  try  to  git  him  into  trouble — and — 
and  then  the  Judge — he  might — you  understand  that 
I  was  only  jokin',  don't  you,  Denny?" 

Young  Denny  nodded  his  head  silently  in  reply. 
Long  after  the  shrill  falsetto  grumbling  had  ceased  to 
drift  back  up  the  hill  to  him  he  stood  there  motion 
less.  After  a  while  the  fingers  that  still  clutched  the 
bundle  of  circulars  opened  loosely  and  when  he  did 
finally  wheel  to  cross  slowly  to  the  kitchen  door  the 
papers  and  catalogues  lay  unheeded,  scattered  on  the 
ground  where  they  had  fallen. 

He  stopped  once  at  the  threshold  to  prop  his  pike- 
pole  against  the  house  corner  before  he  passed  aim 
lessly  inside,  leaving  the  door  wide  open  behind  him. 
And  he  stood  a  long  time  in  the  middle  of  the  dark 
room,  staring  dully  at  the  cold,  fireless  stove.  Never 
before  had  he  given  it  more  than  a  passing  thought 
— he  had  accepted  it  silently  as  he  accepted  all  other 
conditions  over  which  he  had  no  control — but  now 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  37 

as  he  stood  and  stared,  it  came  over  him,  bit  by  bit, 
that  he  was  tired — so  utterly  weary  that  the  task  of 
cooking  his  own  supper  that  night  had  suddenly  be 
come  a  task  greater  than  he  could  even  attempt. 
The  very  thought  of  the  half-cooked  food  sickened 
him — nauseated  him.  Motionless  there  in  the  dark 
he  dragged  one  big  hand  across  his  dry  lips  and 
slowly  shook  his  head. 

"They  didn't  want  me,"  he  muttered  hoarsely. 
"It  wasn't  because  they  forgot  me  before;  they  didn't 
want  me — not  even  for  the  strength  of  my  shoulders." 

With  heavy,  shuffling  steps  he  crossed  and  dropped 
loosely  into  a  chair  beside  the  bare  board  table  that 
stood  in  front  of  one  dingy  window.  A  long  time  he 
sat  silent,  his  lean  chin  propped  in  his  rough  palms, 
eyes  burning  straight  ahead  of  him  into  vacancy. 
Then,  little  by  little,  his  great  shoulders  In  the  vividly 
checkered  coat  began  to  sag — they  slumped  downward 
— until  his  head  was  bowed  and  his  face  lay  hidden 
in  the  long  arms  crooked  limply  a-sprawl  across  the 
table-top. 

Once  more  he  spoke  aloud,  hours  later. 

"They  didn't  want  me,"  he  repeated  dully.  "Not 
even  for  the  work  I  could  do !" 


CHAPTER  III 

IT  was  very  quiet  in  the  front  room  of  the  little 
cottage  that  squatted  in  the  black  shadow  below 
Judge  Maynard's  huge  house  on  the  hill.  No 
sound  broke  the  heavy  silence  save  the  staccato  clip- 
clip  of  the  long  shears  in  the  fingers  of  the  girl  who 
was  leaning  almost  breathlessly  over  the  work  spread 
out  on  the  table  beneath  the  feeble  glow  of  the  single 
oil-lamp,  unless  the  faint,  monotonous  murmur  which 
came  in  an  endless  sing-song  from  the  lips  of  the 
stooped,  white-haired  old  figure  in  the  small  back 
room  beyond  the  door  could  be  named  anything  so 
definite. 

John  Anderson's  lips  always  moved  when  he 
worked.  His  fingers,  strong  and  clean-jointed  and 
almost  womanishly  smooth — the  only  part  of  the  man 
not  pitifully  seared  with  age — flew  with  a  bewilder 
ing  nimbleness  one  moment,  only  to  dwell  the  next 
with  a  lingering  caress  upon  the  shaping  features  be 
fore  him;  and  for  each  caress  of  his  finger  tips 
there  was  an  accompanying,  vacantly  gentle  smile 
or  an  uncertainly  emphatic  nod  of  the  silvered  head 
which  gave  the  one-sided  conversation  a  touch  of  un 
canny  reality. 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  39 

And  yet,  at  regularly  recurring  intervals,  even  his 
busy  fingers  faltered,  while  he  sat  head  bent  far  over 
to  one  side  as  though  he  were  listening  for  something, 
waiting  for  some  reply.  At  every  such  pause  the 
vacant  smile  left  his  face  and  failed  to  return  im 
mediately.  The  monotonously  inflectionless  conver 
sation  was  still,  too,  for  the  time,  and  he  merely  sat 
and  stared  perplexedly  about  him,  around  the  small 
workshop,  bare  except  for  the  single  high-stool  that 
held  him  and  the  littered  bench  on  which  he  leaned. 

There  was  a  foot-wide  shelf  against  each  wall  of 
that  room,  fastened  waist  high  from  the  floor,  and 
upon  it  stood  countless  small  white  statues,  all  slim 
and  frail  of  limb,  all  upturned  and  smiling  of  lip. 
They  were  miraculously  alike,  these  delicate  white 
figures,  each  with  a  throat-tightening  heartache  in  its 
wistful  face — so  alike  in  form  and  expression  that 
they  might  have  been  cast  in  a  single  mold.  Wher 
ever  his  eyes  might  fall,  whenever  he  turned  in  one 
of  those  endlessly  repeated  fits  of  faltering  uncer 
tainty,  that  tiny  face  was  always  before  him,  uplifted 
of  lip,  smiling  back  into  John  Anderson's  vacant 
eyes  until  his  own  lips  began  to  curve  again  and  he 
turned  once  more,  nodding  his  head  and  murmuring 
contentedly,  to  the  clay  upon  his  bench. 

Out  in  the  larger  front  room,  as  she  hovered  over 
the  work  spread  out  before  her,  the  girl,  too,  was 
talking  aloud  to  herself,  not  in  the  toneless,  rambling 


40  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

voice  that  came  from  John  Anderson's  mumbling  lips, 
but  in  hushed,  rapt,  broken  sentences  which  were  soft 
ly  tinged  with  incredulous  wonder. 

The  yellow  glow  of  the  single  lamp,  pushed  far 
across  the  table  from  her,  where  the  most  of  its 
radiance  was  swallowed  up  by  the  gloom  of  the  un 
curtained  window,  flickered  unsteadily  across  her 
shining,  tumbled  hair,  coloring  the  faintly  blue,  thinly 
penciled  lines  beneath  her  tip-tilted  eyes  with  a  hint 
of  weariness  totally  at  variance  with  the  firm  little 
sloping  shoulders  and  full  lips,  pursed  in  a  childish 
pout  over  a  mouthful  of  pins. 

The  hours  had  passed  swiftly  that  day  for  Dryad 
Anderson;  and  the  last  one  of  all — the  one  since  she 
had  lighted  the  single  small  lamp  in  the  room  and  set 
it  in  the  window,  so  far  across  the  table  from  her 
that  she  had  to  strain  more  and  more  closely  over 
her  swift  flashing  scissors  in  the  thickening  dusk — 
had  flown  on  winged  feet,  even  faster  than  she  knew. 

Twice,  early  in  the  evening  she  had  laid  the  long 
shears  aside  and  risen  from  the  matter  that  engrossed 
her  almost  to  the  exclusion  of  every  other  thought, 
to  peer  intently  out  of  the  window  across  the  valley 
at  the  bleak  old  farmhouse  on  the  crest  of  the  oppo 
site  ridge;  and  each  time  as  she  settled  herself  once 
more  in  the  chair,  hunched  boyishly  over  the  table 
edge,  she  only  nodded  her  bright  head  in  utter,  un 
disturbed  unconsciousness  of  the  passage  of  time. 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  41 

"He's  late  getting  home  tonight,"  she  told  her 
self  aloud,  after  she  had  searched  the  outer  darkness 
in  vain  for  any  answering  signal,  but  there  was  not 
even  the  faintest  trace  of  troubled  worry  in  her  words. 
She  merely  smiled  with  mock  severity. 

"He's  later  than  he  ought  to  be — even  if  it  is  his 
last  week  back  in  the  hills.  Next  week  I'll  have  to 
make  him  wait " 

Her  vaguely  murmured  threat  drifted  away  into 
nothingness,  left  unfinished  as  she  rose  and  stood, 
hands  lightly  bracketed  upon  her  hips,  scrutinizing 
the  completed  work. 

"There,"  she  went  on  softly,  sighing  in  deep  relief, 
"there — that's  done — if — if  it  will  only  fit." 

She  removed  the  cluster  of  pins  from  her  mouth 
and  unfastened  the  long  strip  of  newspaper  from 
the  section  of  the  old  black  skirt  which  she  had  ripped 
apart  that  afternoon  for  a  pattern.  It  was  far  too 
short — that  old  skirt — to  duplicate  the  long  free  lines 
of  the  brilliant  red  and  black  costume  of  the  dancer 
beside  her  elbow  on  the  table,  but  Dryad  Anderson's 
shears,  coasting  rapidly  around  the  edge  of  the  worn 
cloth,  had  left  a  wide  margin  of  safety  at  the  hem. 

The  critical  frown  upon  her  forehead  smoothed 
little  by  little  while  she  lifted  cautiously  that  long  strip 
of  paper  pattern  and  turned  with  it  dangling  from  one 
hip  to  walk  up  and  down  before  the  tilted  mirror  at 
the  far  end  of  the  room,  viewing  her  reflected 


42  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

image  from  every  possible  angle.  Even  the 
thoughtful  pucker  at  the  corners  of  her  eyes  disap 
peared  and  she  nodded  her  small  head  with  its  loos 
ened  mass  of  hair  in  judicious  satisfaction. 

"I  do  believe  that's  it,"  the  hushed  voice  mused 
on,  "or,  if  it  isn't,  it  is  as  near  as  I  can  ever  hope  to 
get  it.  If — if  only  it  doesn't  sag  at  the  heels — and 
if  it  does  I'll  have  to " 

Again  with  a  last  approving  glance  flung  over  one 
shoulder  the  murmured  comment,  whatever  it  might 
have  been,  was  finished  wordlessly.  Her  fingers,  in 
spite  of  their  very  smallness  as  strong  and  straight 
and  clean-jointed  as  those  of  the  old  man  bent  double 
over  his  bench  in  the  back  room,  lingered  absently 
over  the  folding  of  that  last  paper  pattern,  and  when 
she  finally  added  it  to  the  top  of  the  stack  already 
folded  and  piled  beside  the  lamp  her  eyes  had  become 
velvety  blank  with  preoccupation. 

From  early  afternoon,  ever  since  the  Judge  himself 
had  whirled  up  to  the  sagging  gate  at  the  end  of 
their  rotting  board-walk  and  clambered  out  of  his 
yellow-wheeled  buckboard  to  knock  with  measured 
solemnity  at  the  front  door,  Dryad  had  been  rush 
ing  madly  from  task  to  task  and  pausing  always  in 
just  such  fashion  in  the  midst  of  each  to  stand  dream 
ily  immobile,  everything  else  forgotten  for  the  mo 
ment  in  an  effort  to  visualize  it — to  understand  that 
it  was  real,  after  all,  and  not  just  a  cobweb  fabric 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  43 

of  her  own  fancy,  like  the  dreams  she  was  always 
weaving  to  make  the  long  week  days  pass  more 
quickly. 

It  was  more  than  a  few  years  since  the  last  time 
Judge  Maynard  had  driven  up  to  the  gate  of  that 
old,  drab  cottage;  and  now  standing  there  with  one 
slim  outstretched  hand  lovingly  patting  the  bundle  of 
paper  patterns  which  represented  her  afternoon's 
work,  she  smiled  with  gentle  derision  for  the  mental 
picture  she  had  carried  all  those  years  of  the  wealthi 
est  man  in  Boltonwood. 

The  paternal,  almost  bewildering  familiar  cordial 
ity  with  which  he  had  greeted  her  and  the  pompously 
jovial  urgency  of  the  invitation  which  he  had  come 
to  deliver  in  person,  urging  acceptance  upon  her  be 
cause  she  "saw  entirely  too  little  of  the  young  folks 
of  the  town,"  was  hardly  in  accord  with  the  childish 
recollection  she  had  carried  with  her,  year  after 
year,  of  a  purple  faced,  cursing  figure  who  leaned 
over  the  rickety  old  fence  that  bounded  the  garden, 
shook  his  fists  in  John  Anderson's  mildly  puzzled 
face  and  roared  threats  until  he  had  to  cease  from 
very  breathlessness. 

A  far  different  Judge  had  bowed  low  before  her 
that  afternoon  when  she  answered  the  measured  sum 
mons  at  the  door — a  sleek,  twinkling,  unctuously  so 
licitous,  far  more  portly  Judge  Maynard — and  Dry 
ad  Anderson,  who  could  not  know  that  he  had  finally 


44  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

come  to  agree  with  the  rest  of  the  village  that  he 
might  "catch  more  flies  with  molasses  than  with  vin 
egar,"  and  was  ordering  his  campaign  accordingly, 
flushed  in  painful  memory  for  the  half-clad,  half- 
starved  little  creature  that  had  clung  to  John  Ander 
son's  rusty  coat-tails  that  other  day  and  glared  black, 
bitter  hate  back  at  the  man  beyond  the  fence. 

Leaning  against  the  table  there  in  the  half  light  of 
the  room,  a  slow  smile  curled  back  the  corners  of  her 
lips,  still  childishly  quizzical  in  contrast  with  that  slim 
roundness  of  body  which  was  losing  its  boyish 
litheness  in  a  new  slender  fullness  that  throbbed  on 
the  threshold  of  womanhood.  She  smiled  deprecat- 
ingly  as  she  lifted  one  hand  to  search  in  the  breast  of 
the  blouse  that  was  always  just  enough  outgrown  to 
fail  of  closing  across  her  throat,  and  drew  out  the 
thing  which  the  Judge  had  delivered  with  every  pos 
sible  flourish,  barely  a  few  hours  back. 

Already  the  envelope  was  creased  and  worn  with 
much  handling,  but  the  square  card  within,  thickly, 
creamily  white,  was  still  unspotted.  As  if  it  were  a 
perishably  precious  thing  her  fingers  drew  it  with 
infinite  care  from  its  covering,  and  she  leaned  far 
across  the  table  to  prop  it  up  before  her  where  the 
light  fell  brightest.  Pointed  chin  cupped  in  her  palms, 
she  lay  devouring  with  hungry  eyes  the  words  upon 
its  polished  surface. 

requests  the  pleasure  of,"  she  picked 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  45 

up  the  lines  which  she  already  knew  by  rote;  and 
then,  "Miss  Dryad  Anderson's  company,"  in  the 
heavy  sprawling  scrawl  which  she  knew  must  have 
come  from  the  Judge's  own  pen. 

Suddenly  her  two  hands  flashed  out  and  swept  the 
card  up  to  crush  it  against  her  with  passionate  im 
petuosity. 

"Oh,  you  wonderful  thing!"  she  crooned  over  it, 
a  low  laugh  that  was  half  a  sob  bubbling  in  her  throat. 
"You  wonderful  thing !  And  to  think  that  I've  had 
you  all  the  afternoon — almost  all  day — and  he's  had 
to  wait  all  this  time  for  his  to  come.  He's  had  to 
wait  for  Jerry  to  bring  his  with  the  mail — and  Jerry 
is  so  dreadfully  slow  at  times." 

Lingeringly,  as  though  she  hated  to  hide  it,  her 
fingers  thrust  the  card  back  inside  its  envelope.  And 
she  was  tucking  it  away  in  its  warm  hiding  place 
within  the  scant  fullness  of  the  white  blouse  when 
the  clock  on  the  wall  behind  her  began  to  beat  out 
the  hour  with  a  noisy  whir  of  loosened  cogs. 

"Hours  and  hours,"  she  murmured,  counting  the 
strokes  subconsciously. 

And  then  as  the  growing  total  of  those  gong 
strokes  beat  in  upon  her  brain,  all  the  dreamy  pre 
occupation  faded  from  her  face.  The  little  compas 
sionate  smile  which  had  accompanied  the  last  words 
disappeared  before  the  swift,  taut  change  that 
straightened  her  lips.  She  whirled,  peering  from 


46  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

startled  eyes  up  at  the  dim  old  dial,  refusing  to  be 
lieve  her  own  count;  and  as  she  stood,  body  tensely 
poised,  gazing  incredulously  at  the  hands,  she  realized 
for  the  first  time  how  fast  the  hours  had  flown  while 
she  bent,  forgetful  of  all  else,  over  her  paper  patterns. 

The  table  rocked  dangerously  as  she  crowded  her 
body  between  it  and  the  windowsill  and,  back  to  the 
light,  stood  staring  with  her  face  cupped  in  her  hands 
out  into  the  blackness.  Far  across  the  valley  the 
dilapidated  farmhouse  on  the  ridge  showed  only  a 
blurred  blot  against  the  skyline. 

Minutes  the  girl  stood  and  watched.  The  min 
utes  lengthened  interminably  while  the  light  for 
which  she  waited  failed  to  show  through  the  dark, 
until  a  dead  white,  living  fear  began  to  creep  across 
her  face — a  fear  that  wiped  the  last  trace  of  child 
ishness  from  her  tightened  features. 

"He's  late,"  she  whispered  hoarsely.  "It's  the  last 
week,  and  it's  just  kept  him  later  than  usual !" 

But  there  was  no  assurance  in  the  words  that  fal 
tered  from  her  lips.  They  were  lifelessly  dull,  as 
though  she  were  trying  to  convince  herself  of  a  thing 
she  already  knew  she  could  not  believe. 

As  long  as  she  could  she  stood  there  at  the  win 
dow,  doggedly  fighting  the  rising  terror  that  was 
bleaching  her  face;  fighting  the  dread  which  was 
never  quite  asleep  within  her  brain — the  dread  of  that 
old  stone  demijohn  standing  in  the  corner  of  the 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  47 

kitchen,  which  for  all  her  broken  pleading  Young 
Denny  Bolton  had  refused  with  a  strange,  unexplained 
stubbornness  to  remove — until  that  rising  terror  drove 
her  away  from  the  pane. 

One  wideflung  arm  swept  the  stack  of  neatly  folded 
patterns  in  a  rustling  storm  to  the  floor  as  she  pushed 
her  way  out  from  the  narrow  space  between  table 
edge  and  sill.  The  girl  did  not  heed  them  or  the 
lamp,  that  rocked  drunkenly  with  the  tottering  table. 
She  had  forgotten  everything — the  thick  white  square 
of  cardboard,  even  the  stooped  old  man  in  the  small 
back  room — in  the  face  of  the  overwhelming  fear  that 
reason  could  not  fight  down.  Only  the  peculiarly  ab 
solute  silence  that  came  with  the  sudden  cessation  of 
his  droning  monotone  checked  the  panic  haste  of  her 
first  rush.  With  one  hand  clutching  the  knob  of  the 
outer  door  she  turned  back. 

John  Anderson  was  sitting  twisted  about  on  his 
high  stool,  gazing  after  her  in  infantile,  perplexed 
reproach,  his  long  fingers  clasped  loosely  about  the 
almost  finished  figure  over  which  he  had  been  toil 
ing.  As  the  girl  turned  back  toward  him  his  eyes 
wandered  down  to  it  and  he  began  to  shake  his  head 
slowly,  vacantly,  hopelessly.  A  low  moaning  whim 
per  stirred  her  lips;  then  the  hand  tight-clenched  over 
the  knob  slackened.  She  ran  swiftly  across  to 
him. 

"What  is  it,  dear?"    Her  voice  broke,  husky  with 


48  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

fright  and  pity.  "Tell  me — what  is  the  matter? 
Won't  it  come  right  to-night?" 

With  shaking  hands  she  leaned  over  him,  smooth 
ing  the  shining  hair.  At  the  touch  of  her  fingers  he 
looked  up,  staring  with  pleading  uncertainty  into  her 
quivering  face  before  he  shook  his  head. 

"It — it  don't  smile,"  he  complained  querulously. 
His  fingers  groped  lightly  over  the  small  face  of  clay. 
"I — I  can't  make  it  smile — like  the  rest." 

Sudden  terror  contorted  the  thin  features,  a  sheer 
ecstacy  of  terror  as  white-lipped  as  that  which  marred 
the  face  of  the  girl  who  bent  above  him. 

"Maybe  I've  forgotten  how  she  smiled!"  he  whis 
pered  fearfully.  "Maybe  I'll  never  be  able  to— 

Dryad's  eyes  flitted  desperately  around  the  room, 
along  the  shelves  laden  with  those  countless  figures 
— all  white  and  finely  slender,  all  upturned  of  face. 
Again  a  little  impotent  gasp  choked  her;  then,  eyes 
filling  hotly  at  that  poignantly  wistful  smile  which 
edged  the  lips  of  each,  she  stooped  and  patted  reas 
suringly  the  trembling  hands  before  she  stepped  a 
pace  away  from  him. 

"You've  not  forgotten,  dear.  Why,  you  musn't 
be  frightened  like  that!  We  know,  you  and  I,  don't 
we,  that  you  never  could  forget?  You're  just  tired. 
Now,  that's  better — that's  brave!  And  now — look! 
Isn't  this  the  way — isn't  this  the  way  it  ought  to  be?" 

Face  uptilted,  bloodless  lips   falling  apart  in  the 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  49 

faintest  of  pallid  smiles,  she  swayed  forward,  both 
arms  outstretched  toward  him.  And  as  she  stood 
the  wide  eyes  and  straight  nose  and  delicately  pointed 
chin  of  her  colorless  face  took  line  for  line  the  lines 
of  all  those,  chalky  white,  against  the  wall. 

For  a  moment  John  Anderson's  eyes  clung  to  her — 
clung  vacant  with  hopeless  doubt;  then  they  glowed 
again  with  dawning  recollection.  He,  too,  was  smil 
ing  once  more  as  his  fingers  fluttered  in  nervous  haste 
above  the  lips  of  the  clay  face  on  the  bench  before 
him,  and  almost  before  the  girl  had  stepped  back 
beside  him  he  had  forgotten  that  she  was  there. 

"Marie!"  she  heard  him  murmur.  "Marie,  why, 
you  mustn't  be  afraid !  We'll  never  forget — you  and 
I — we  never  could  forget!" 

Even  while  she  waited  another  instant  those  plas 
tic  earthen  lips  began  to  curl — they  began  to  curve 
with  hungry  longing  like  all  the  rest.  He  was  talk 
ing  steadily  now,  mumbling  broken  fragments  of  sen 
tences  which  it  was  hard  to  understand.  Her  hand 
hovered  a  moment  longer  over  his  bowed  head;  once 
at  the  door  she  paused  and  looked  back  at  him. 

"It's  only  for  a  little  while,"  she  promised  unstead 
ily.  "I — I  have  to  go — but  it's  only  for  a  little 
while.  I'll  be  back  soon — so  soon !  And  you'll  be 
safe  until  I  come !" 

He  gave  no  sign  that  he  had  heard,  not  even  so 
much  as  a  lifted  glance.  But  as  she  drew  the  door 


50  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

shut  behind  her  she  heard  him  pick  up  the  words, 
caressingly,  after  her. 

"You'll  be  safe,  Marie,"  he  whispered.  "It'll  be 
only  for  a  little  while,  now.  You'll  be  safe  till  I 
come."  An  ineffably  peaceful  smile  flickered  across 
his  face.  "We  couldn't  forget — why,  of  course,  we 
couldn't  forget — you  and  I !" 

With  the  short  black  skirt  lifted  even  higher  above 
her  ankles  that  she  might  make  still  more  speed, 
Dryad  turned  into  the  dark  path  that  twisted  crook 
edly  through  the  brush  to  the  open  clearing  beside 
the  brook  and  from  there  on  to  the  black  house  on 
the  hill. 

She  ran  swiftly,  madly,  through  the  darkness,  with 
the  wild,  panic-stricken,  headlong  abandon  of  a 
hunted  thing,  finding  the  narrow  trail  ahead  of  her 
by  instinct  alone.  Only  once  she  overran  it,  but 
that  once  a  low  hanging  branch,  face  high,  caught  her 
full  across  the  forehead  and  sent  her  crashing  back 
in  the  underbrush.  Just  once  she  put  one  narrow 
foot  in  its  loosely  flapping  shoe  into  the  deep  crevice 
between  two  rocks  and  gasped  aloud  with  the  pain 
of  the  fall  that  racked  her  knees.  When  she  groped 
out  and  steadied  herself  erect  she  was  talking — stam 
mering  half  incoherent  words  that  came  bursting 
jerkily  from  her  lips  as  she  tore  on. 

"Help  me  ...  in  time  .  .  .  God,"  she  panted. 
"Just  this  once  .  .  .  get  to  him  ...  in  time.  Lord, 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  51 

forgive  .  .  .  own  vanity.    Oh,  God,  please  in  time!" 

Small  feet  drumming  the  harder  ground,  she  flashed 
up  the  last  rise  and  across  the  yard  to  the  door  of 
that  unlighted  kitchen.  Her  hands  felt  for  the  latch 
and  failed  to  find  it;  then  she  realized  that  it  was 
already  open — the  door — but  her  knees,  all  the 
strengh  suddenly  drained  from  them  at  the  black  quiet 
in  that  room,  refused  to  carry  her  over  the  threshold. 
She  rocked  forward,  reaching  out  with  one  hand  for 
the  frame  to  steady  herself,  and  in  that  same  instant 
the  man  who  lay  a  huddled  motionless  heap  across 
the  table  top,  moved  a  little  and  began  to  speak 
aloud. 

"They  didn't  want  me,"  he  muttered,  and  the 
words  came  with  muffled  thickness.  "Not  even  for 
the  strength  of  my  shoulders." 

She  took  one  faltering  step  forward — the  girl  who 
stood  there  swaying  in  the  doorway — and  stopped 
again.  And  the  man  lifted  his  head  and  laughed  soft 
ly,  a  short,  ugly  rasping  laugh. 

"Not  even  for  the  work  I  could  do,"  he  finished. 

And  then  she  understood.  She  tried  to  call  out 
to  him,  and  the  words  caught  in  her  throat  and  choked 
her.  She  tried  again  and  this  time  her  voice  rang 
clear  through  the  room. 

"Denny,"  she  cried,  "Denny,  I've  come  to  you ! 
Strike  a  light!  I'm  here,  Denny,  and — oh,  I'm  afraid 
— afraid  of  the  dark!" 


52  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

Before  he  could  rise,  almost  before  his  big-shoul 
dered  body  whirled  in  the  chair  toward  her,  her  swift 
rush  carried  her  across  to  him.  She  knelt  at  his  knees, 
her  thin  arms  clutching  him  with  desperate  strength. 
Denny  Bolton  felt  her  body  shudder  violently  as  he 
leaned  over,  dumb  with  bewilderment,  and  put  his 
hands  on  her  bowed  head. 

"Thank  God,"  he  heard  her  whispering,  "thank 
God— thank  God!" 

But  far  more  swiftly  than  his  half  numbed  brain 
could  follow  she  was  on  her  feet  the  next  instant, 
tense  and  straight  and  lancelike  in  the  gloom. 

"Damn  'em,"  she  hissed.  "Damn  'em — damn  'em 
— damn  'em!" 

His  fingers  felt  for  and  found  a  match  and  struck 
it.  Her  face  was  working  convulsively,  twisted  with 
hate,  both  small  fists  lifted  toward  the  huge  house 
that  crowned  the  opposite  hill.  It  made  him  remem 
ber  that  first  day  when  he  had  looked  up,  with  the 
rabbit  struggling  in  his  arms,  and  found  her  standing 
there  in  the  thicket  before  him,  only  now  the  fury  that 
blazed  in  her  eyes  was  not  for  him.  There  was  a 
rough  red  welt  across  her  forehead  only  half  hidden 
by  the  tumbled  hair  that  cascaded  to  her  waist,  torn 
loose  from  its  scant  fastenings  by  the  whipping  brush. 
And  as  he  stood  with  the  flame  of  the  flickering  match 
scorching  his  fingers,  Denny  Bolton  remembered  all 
the  rest — he  remembered  the  light  that  still  burned 


"HOLD   ME  TIGHT— OH  !    HOLD   ME  TIGHTER! 
ME    TOO ! " 


FOR  THEY    FORGOT   ME.  TOO.  DENNY;  THEY   FORGOT 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  53 

unanswered  in  the  window  across  the  valley.  He 
bowed  his  head. 

"I — I  forgot,"  he  faltered  at  last.  "I  did  not  know 
it  was  so  late.  I  must  have  been — pretty  tired." 

Slowly  the  girl's  clenched  hands  came  away  from 
her  throat  while  she  stared  up  into  his  face,  brown 
and  lean  and  very  hard  and  bitter.  The  ashen  terror 
upon  her  own  cheeks  disappeared  with  a  greater, 
growing  comprehension  of  all  that  lay  behind  that 
dully  colorless  statement.  For  just  a  moment  her 
fingers  hovered  over  the  opening  at  the  neck  of  her 
too  small  blouse  and  felt  the  thick  white  card  that  lay 
hidden  within,  before  she  lifted  both  arms  to  him  in 
impulsive  compassion,  trying  to  smile  in  spite  of  the 
wearily  childish  droop  at  the  corners  of  her  lips. 

"I  know,  Denny,"  she  quavered.  "I — I  under 
stand."  Her  arms  slipped  up  around  his  neck.  "Hold 
me  tight — oh,  hold  me  tighter !  For  they  forgot  me, 
too,  Denny;  they  forgot  me,  too!" 

As  his  arms  closed  about  her  slim  body  she  buried 
her  bright  head  against  the  vividly  checkered  coat  and 
sobbed  silently — great  noiseless  gasps  that  shook  her 
small  shoulders  terribly.  Once,  after  a  long  time, 
when  she  held  his  face  away  to  peer  up  at  him  through 
brimming  eyes,  she  saw  that  all  the  numb  bitterness 
was  gone  from  it — that  he  had  forgotten  all  else  save 
her  own  hurt. 

"Why,  you  mustn't  feel  so  badly  for  me,"  she  told 


54  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

him  then,  warmly  tremulous  of  mouth.  "I — I  don't 
mind  now,  very  much.  Only" — her  voice  broke  un 
steadily — "only  I  did  want  to  go  just  once  where  all 
the  others  go;  I  wanted  them  to  see  me  just  once  in 
a  skirt  that's  long  enough  for  me — and — and  to  wear 
stockings  without  any  patches,  and  silk,  Denny,  silk 
— next  to  my  skin!" 


CHAPTER  IV 

AT  her  first  swift  coming  when  she  had  cried 
out  to  him  there  in  the  dark  and  run  across 
to  kneel  at  his  knees,  a  dull,  shamed  flush 
had  stained  his  lean  cheeks  with  the  realization 
that,  in  his  own  great  bitterness  he  had  failed 
even  to  wonder  whether  she  had  been  forgotten, 
too. 

Now  as  his  big  hand  hovered  over  the  tumbled 
brightness  of  her  hair,  loose  upon  his  sleeve,  that  hot 
shame  in  turn  disappeared.  After  the  quivering 
gasps  were  all  but  stilled,  he  twice  opened  his  lips 
as  if  to  speak,  and  each  time  closed  them  again  with 
out  a  word.  He  was  smiling  a  faint,  gravely  gentle 
smile  that  barely  lifted  the  corners  of  his  lips  when 
she  turned  in  his  arms  and  lifted  her  face  once  more 
to  him. 

"We  don't  mind  very  much,"  she  repeated  in  a 
half  whisper.  "Do  we — either  of  us — now?" 

Slowly  he  shook  his  head.  With  effortless  ease  he 
stooped  and  swung  her  up  on  one  arm,  seating  her 
upon  the  bare  table  before  the  window.  Another 
match  flared  between  his  fingers  and  the  whole  room 
sprang  into  brightness  as  he  touched  the  point  of  flame 


56  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

to  the  wick  of  the  lamp  bracketed  to  the  wall  beside 
him. 

She  sat,  leaning  forward  a  little,  both  elbows  rest 
ing  upon  her  slim  knees,  both  feet  swinging  pendulum- 
like  high  above  the  floor,  watching  with  a  small  frown 
of  curiosity  growing  upon  her  forehead,  while  he 
stooped  without  a  word  of  explanation  and  dragged 
a  bulky  package  from  the  table  and  placed  it  beside 
her.  Then  she  sighed  aloud,  an  audible  sigh  of  sheer 
surprise  after  he  had  broken  the  string  and  drawn 
aside  the  paper  wrapper. 

Just  as  they  had  seemed  in  the  picture  they  lay 
there  under  her  amazed  eyes — the  pointed,  sating 
black  slippers  of  the  dancing  girl,  with  their  absurdly 
slender  heels  and  brilliant  buckles,  and  filmy  stockings 
to  match.  And  underneath  lay  two  folded  squares  of 
shimmering  stuff,  dull  black  and  burnished  scarlet, 
scarce  thicker  than  the  silk  of  the  stockings  them 
selves. 

The  faint,  vaguely  self-conscious  smile  went  from 
Denny  Bolton's  lips  while  he  stood  and  watched  her 
bend  and  touch  each  article,  one  by  one — the  barest 
ghost  of  contact.  Damp  eyes  glowing,  lips  curled  half 
open,  she  lifted  her  head  at  last  and  gazed  at  him, 
as  he  stood  with  hands  balanced  on  his  hips  before 
her. 

A  moment  she  sat  immobile,  her  breath  coming 
and  going  in  soft,  fluttering  gasps,  and  looked  into 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  57 

his  sober,  questioning  face;  then  she  turned  again 
and  picked  up  one  web-like  stocking  and  held  it 
against  her  cheek,  as  hotly  tinted  now  beneath  its 
smooth  whiteness  as  the  shining  scarlet  cloth  beside 
her. 

He  heard  her  murmur  to  herself  little,  broken, 
incoherent  phrases  that  he  could  not  catch. 

"Denny,"  he  heard  her  whisper,  "Denny — 
Denny!" 

And  then,  with  the  tiny  slippers  huddled  in  her 
lap,  her  hands  flashed  out  and  caught  his  face  and 
drew  it  down  against  the  too-small  white  blouse,  open 
at  the  throat. 

"Man — man,"  she  said,  and  he  felt  her  breast  rise 
and  fall,  rise  and  fall,  against  his  cheek.  "Man,  you 
didn't  understand !  It — it  wasn't  the  clothes,  Denny, 
but — but  I'm  all  the  gladder,  I  think,  because  you're 
so  much  of  a  man  that  you  couldn't,  not  even  if  I 
tried  a  hundred  years  to  explain." 

He  drew  the  chair  at  the  side  of  the  table  around 
in  front  of  her  and  dropped  into  it.  With  a  care 
akin  to  reverence  he  lifted  one  slipper  and  held  it  out 
stretched  at  arm's  length  upon  his  broad  palm. 

"I — I  hadn't  exactly  forgotten,  to-night,"  he  told 
her.  "I'd  watched  for  the  light,  and  I  meant  to 
bring  them — when  I  came."  His  steady  eyes  dropped 
to  her  slim,  swinging  feet.  "They're  the  smallest  they 
had  in  any  shop  at  the  county-seat,"  he  went  on,  and 


5  8  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

the  slow  smile  came  creeping  back  across  his  face.  "I 
crossed  over  through  the  timber  late  last  night,  after 
we  had  broken  camp,  and  I — I  had  to  guess  the 
size.  Shall  we — try  them  on?" 

She  reached  out  and  snatched  the  small  thing  of 
satin  and  leather  away  from  him  with  mock  jealous 
impetuosity,  a  little  reckless  gurgle  of  utter  delight 
breaking  from  her  lips. 

"Over  these,"  she  demanded,  lifting  one  foot  and 
pointing  at  the  thickly  patched  old  stocking  above  the 
dingy,  string-tied  shoe.  "You — you  are  trying  to 
shame  me,  Denny — you  want  to  make  me  confess  they 
are  too  small!" 

Then,  almost  in  the  same  breath,  all  the  facetious 
accusation  left  her  face.  Even  the  warm  glow  of 
wonder  which  had  lighted  her  wet  eyes  gave  way  to 
a  new  seriousness. 

"No  one  has  ever  told  me,"  she  stated  slowly,  "but 
I  know  it  is  so,  just  the  same.  Somehow,  because  it 
was  to  be  the  first  party  I  had  ever  attended — or — or 
had  a  chance  to  attend,  I  thought  it  must  be  all  right, 
just  once,  for  you  to  buy  me  these.  There  was  no 
one  else  to  buy  them,  Denny,  and  maybe  I  wanted  to 
go  so  very  much  I  made  myself  believe  that  it  was  all 
right.  But  there  isn't  any  party  now — for  us.  And 
— and  men  don't  buy  clothes  for  women,  Denny — not 
until  they're  married!" 

Her  face  was  tensely  earnest  while  she  waited  for 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  59 

the  big  man  before  her  to  answer.  And  Young  Denny 
turned  his  head,  staring  silently  out  of  the  opposite 
window  down  toward  the  village,  dark  now,  in  the  val 
ley  below.  He  cleared  his  throat  uncertainly. 

"Do  they?"  She  was  leaning  forward  until  her 
hair  brushed  his  own.  "Do  they,  Denny?"  A  rising 
inflection  left  the  words  hanging  in  midair. 

"I  don't  know  just  what  the  difference  is,"  he  began 
finally,  his  voice  very  deliberate.  "I've  often  tried  to 
figure  it  out,  and  never  been  quite  able  to 
get  it  straight" — he  nodded  his  head  again  toward 
the  sleeping  village — "but  we — we've  never  been  like 
the  rest,  anyhow.  And — and  anyway,"  he  reached 
out  one  hand  and  laid  it  upon  her  knees,  "we're  to 
be  married,  too — when — when " 

With  swift,  caressing  haste  she  lifted  the  slippers 
that  lay  cradled  in  her  lap  and  set  them  back  inside 
the  open  package.  Lightly  she  swung  herself  down 
and  stood  before  him,  both  hands  balanced  upon  his 
shoulders.  For  just  the  fraction  of  a  moment  her  eyes 
lifted  over  his  head,  flickering  toward  the  stone  demi 
john  that  stood  in  the  far,  shadowy  corner  near  the 
door.  Her  voice  was  trembling  a  little  when  she 
went  on. 

"Then  let  me  come  soon,  Denny,"  she  begged. 
"Can't  it  be  soon?  Oh,  I'm  going  to  keep  them!" 
One  hand  searched  behind  her  to  fall  lightly  upon 
the  package  upon  the  table.  "They're — they're  so 


60  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

beautiful  that  I  don't  believe  I  could  ever  give  them 
back.  But  do  we  have  to  wait  any  longer — do  we? 
I  can  take  care  of  him,  too." 

Vehemently  she  tilted  her  head  toward  the  little 
drab  cottage  across  under  the  opposite  hill. 

"He  hardly  ever  notices  when  I  come  or  go.  I — I 
want  to  come,  Denny.  I'm  lonesome,  and — and — 
her  eyes  darkened  and  swam  with  fear  as  she  stared 
beyond  him  into  the  dusky  corner  near  the  door, 
"why  can't  I  come  now,  before  some  time — when 
it  might  be — too  late?" 

He  reached  up  and  took  her  hands  from  his  shoul 
ders  and  held  them  in  front  of  him,  absently  contem 
plating  their  rounded  smoothness.  She  bent  closer, 
trying  to  read  his  eyes,  and  found  them  inscrutable. 
Then  his  fingers  tightened. 

"And  be  like  them?"  he  demanded,  and  the  words 
leaped  out  so  abruptly  that  they  were  almost  harsh. 
"And  be  like  all  the  rest,"  he  reiterated,  jerking  his 
head  backward,  "old  and  thin,  and  bent  and  worn- 
out  at  thirty?"  A  hard,  self-scathing  note  crept  into 
the  words.  "Why,  it — it  took  me  almost  a  month — 
even  to  buy  these !" 

He  in  turn  reached  out  and  laid  a  hand  upon  the 
bundle  behind  her.  But  she  only  laughed  straight 
back  into  his  face — a  short,  unsteady  laugh  of  utter 
derision. 

"Old?"  she  echoed.     "Work!     But  I— I'd  have 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  61 

you,  Denny,  wouldn't  I?"  Again  she  laughed  in  soft 
disdain.  "Clothes!"  she  scoffed.  And  then,  more 
serious  even  than  before :  "Denny,  is — is  that  the 
only  reason,  now?" 

The  gleam  that  always  smoldered  in  Denny  Bol- 
ton's  eyes  whenever  he  remembered  the  tales  they  told 
around  the  Tavern  stove  of  Old  Denny's  last  bad 
night  began  to  kindle.  His  lips  were  thin  and  straight 
and  as  colorless  as  his  suddenly  weary  face  as  he 
stood  and  looked  back  at  her.  She  lifted  her  hands 
and  put  them  back  upon  his  shoulders. 

"I'm  not  afraid — any  more — to  chance  it,"  she  told 
him,  her  lips  trembling  in  spite  of  all  she  could  do 
to  hold  them  steady.  "I'm  never  afraid,  when  I'm  with 
you.  It — it's  only  when  I'm  alone  that  it  grows  to  be 
more  than  I  can  bear,  sometimes.  I'm  not  afraid. 
Does  it — does  it  have  to  stay  there  any  longer,  in 
the  corner,  Denny?  Aren't  we  sure  enough  now — 
you  and  I — aren't  we?" 

He  stepped  back  a  pace — his  big  body  huge  above 
her  slenderness — stepped  away  from  the  very  near 
ness  of  her.  But  as  she  lifted  her  arms  to  him  he 
began  to  shake  his  head — the  old  stubborn  refusal  that 
had  answered  her  a  countless  number  of  times 
before. 

"Aren't  we?"  she  said  again,  but  her  voice  sounded 
very  small  and  bodiless  and  forlorn  in  the  half  dark 
room. 


62  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

He  swung  one  arm  in  a  stiff  gesture  that  embraced 
the  entire  valley. 

"They're  all  sure,  too,"  his  voice  grated  hoarsely. 
"They're  all  sure,  too — just  as  sure  as  we  could  ever 
be — and  there's  a  whole  town  of  them!" 

She  was  bending  silently  over  the  table,  retying  the 
bundle,  when  he  crossed  back  to  her  side,  a  lighted 
lantern  dangling  in  one  hand. 

"I  don't  know  why  myself,"  he  tried  to  explain.  "I 
only  know  I've  got  to  wait.  And  I  don't  even  know 
what  I'm  waiting  for — but  I  know  it's  got  to  come !" 

She  would  not  lift  her  head  when  he  slipped  his 
free  arm  about  her  shoulders  and  drew  her  against 
him.  When  he  reached  out  to  take  the  package  from 
her  she  held  it  away  from  him,  but  her  voice,  half 
muffled  against  his  checkered  coat,  was  anything  but 
hard. 

"Let  you  carry  them?"  she  murmured.  "Why — 
I  wouldn't  trust  them  to  any  other  hands  in  the  world 
but  my  own.  You  can't  even  see  them  again — not 
until  I've  finished  them,  and  I  wear  them — for  you." 

With  head  still  bowed  she  walked  before  him  to 
the  open  door.  But  there  on  the  threshold  she  stopped 
and  flashed  up  at  him  her  whimsically  provocating 
smile. 

"Tell  me — why  don't  you  tell  me,  Denny,"  she 
commanded  imperiously,  "that  I'm  prettier  than  all 
the  others — even  if  I  haven't  the  pretty  clothes !" 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  63 

When  the  ridges  to  the  east  were  tinged  with  the 
red  of  a  rising  sun,  Denny  Bolton  was  still  sitting, 
head  propped  in  his  hands,  at  the  table  before  the 
window,  totally  oblivious  to  the  smoking  lamp  beside 
him,  or  to  anything  else  save  the  square  card  which 
he  had  found  lying  there  beneath  the  table  after  he 
had  taken  her  back  across  the  valley  to  John  Ander 
son's  once-white  cottage.  He  rose  and  extinguished 
the  smoking  wick  as  the  first  light  of  day  began  to 
creep  through  the  room. 

" Requests  the  pleasure  of  Miss  Dryad  An 
derson's  company,"  he  repeated  aloud.  And  then,  as 
he  turned  to  the  open  door  and  the  work  that  was 
waiting  for  him,  in  a  voice  that  even  he  himself  had 
never  before  heard  pass  his  lips: 

"And  she  could  have  gone — she  could  have,  and 
she  didn't — just  because " 

His  grave  voice  drifted  off  into  silence.  As  if  it 
were  a  perishably  precious  thing,  he  slipped  the  square 
card  within  its  envelope  and  buttoned  the  whole  with 
in  his  coat. 


CHAPTER  V 

AS    far    back    as    he    could    remember    Denny 
could  not  recall  a  single  day  when  Old  Jerry 
had  swung  up  the  long  hill  road  that  led  to 
his  lonesome  farmhouse  on  the  ridge  at  a  pace  any 
faster  than  a  crawling  walk.    Nor  could  he  recollect, 
either,  a  single  instance  when  he  had  chanced  to  ar 
rive  at  that  last  stop  upon  the  route  much  before  dark. 
And  yet  it  was  still  a  good  two  hours  before  sun 
down;  only  a  few  minutes  before  he  had  driven  his 
heavy  steaming  team  in  from  the  fields  and  turned 
toward  the  ladder  that  mounted  to  the  hayloft,  when 
the    familiar    shrill    complaint    of    ungreased    axles 
drifted  up  to  him  from  the  valley. 

With  a  foot  upon  the  first  rung  Young  Denny 
paused,  scowling  in  mild  perplexity.  He  had  crossed 
the  next  moment  to  the  open  double  doors,  as  the 
sound  floated  up  to  him  in  a  steadily  increasing  vol 
ume,  and  was  standing,  his  big  body  huge  in  its  flan 
nel  shirt,  open  at  the  throat,  and  high  boots  laced  to 
the  knees,  leaning  loosely  at  ease  against  the  door 
frame,  when  the  dingy  rig  with  its  curtains  flapping 
crazily  in  the  wind  lurched  around  the  bend  in  the 
road  and  came  bouncing  wildly  up  the  rutty  grade. 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  65 

The  boy  straightened  and  stiffened,  his  head  go 
ing  forward  a  little,  for  the  fat  old  mare  was  pounding 
along  at  a  lumbering  gallop — a  pace  which,  in  all  the 
time  he  had  watched  for  it,  he  had  never  before  be 
held.  Old  Jerry  was  driving  with  a  magnificent  aban 
don,  his  hands  far  outstretched  over  the  dash,  and 
more  than  that,  for  even  from  where  he  stood  Denny 
could  hear  him  shouting  at  her  in  his  thin,  cracked 
falsetto — shouting  for  still  more  speed. 

A  rare,  amused  smile  tugged  at  the  corners  of 
Young  Denny's  lips  as  he  crossed  the  open  yard  to  the 
crest  of  the  hill.  But  when  the  groaning  buggy  came 
to  a  standstill  and  Old  Jerry  flung  the  reins  across  the 
mare's  wide  back,  to  dive  and  burrow  in  frantic  haste 
under  the  seat  for  the  customary  roll  of  advertise 
ments,  without  so  much  as  a  glance  for  the  boy  who 
strode  slowly  up  to  the  wheel,  that  shadow  of  a  smile 
which  had  touched  his  face  faded  into  concerned  grav 
ity.  He  hesitated  a  moment,  as  if  not  quite  certain 
of  what  he  should  do. 

"Is  there — there  isn't  any  one  sick,  is  there?"  he 
asked  at  last,  half  diffidently. 

The  little,  white-haired  old  man  in  the  buggy 
jerked  erect  with  startling,  automatonlike  swiftness  at 
that  slow  question.  For  a  moment  he  stood  absolutely 
motionless,  his  back  toward  the  speaker,  his  head 
perked  far  over  to  one  side  as  though  he  refused  to 
believe  he  had  heard  correctly.  Then,  little  by  little, 


66  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

he  wheeled  until  his  strangely  brilliant,  birdlike  eyes 
were  staring  straight  down  into  Denny's  upturned, 
anxious  face.  And  as  he  stared  Old  Jerry's  counte 
nance  grew  blankly  incredulous. 

"Sick!"  he  echoed  the  boy's  words  scornfully. 
"Sick!" 

His  grotesquely  thin  body  seemed  to  swell  as  he 
straightened  himself,  and  his  shrill  squeak  of  a  voice 
took  on  a  new  note  of  pompous  importance. 

"I  guess, "he  stated  impressively,  "I  reckon,  Denny, 
you  ain't  heard  the  news,  hev  you?"  He  chuckled 
pityingly,  half  contemptuously.  "I  reckon  you 
couldn't've,"  he  concluded  with  utter  finality. 

The  old,  sullenly  bewildered  light  crept  back  into 
Young  Denny's  gray  eyes.  He  shifted  his  feet  un 
easily,  shaking  his  head. 

"I — I  just  got  back  down  from  the  timber,  three 
days  ago,"  he  explained,  and  somehow,  entirely  un 
intentionally,  as  he  spoke  the  slow  statement  seemed 
almost  an  apology  for  his  lack  of  information.  "I 
guess  I  haven't  heard  much  of  anything  lately — up 
here.  Is  it — is  it  something  big?" 

Old  Jerry  hesitated.  He  felt  suddenly  the  hopeless, 
overwhelming  dearth  of  words  against  which  he  la 
bored  in  the  attempt  to  carry  the  tidings  worthily. 

"Big !"  He  repeated  the  other's  question.  "Big !" 
Why,  Godfrey  'Lisha,  boy,  it's  the  biggest  thing  that's 
ever  happened  to  this  town.  It — it's  terrific !  We'll 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  67 

be  famous — that's  what  we'll  be !  In  a  week  or  two 
Boltonwood'll  be  as  famous  as — as — why,  we'll  be 
as  famous  as  the  Chicago  Fair!" 

He  broke  off  with  a  gasp  for  breath  and  started 
fluttering  madly  through  the  paper  which  he  had 
wrenched  from  Young  Denny's  bundle  of  closely 
wrapped  mail,  until  he  found  the  page  he  sought. 

"There  'tis,"  he  cried,  and  pointed  out  a  lurid  head 
line  that  ran  half  across  the  head  of  the  sporting  sec 
tion.  "There  'tis — or  leastwise  that's  a  part  on  it. 
But  they's  more  a-comin' — more  that  that  won't  be  a 
patch  to  !  But  you  just  take  a  look  at  that!" 

Young  Denny  took  the  paper  from  his  hand  with  a 
sort  of  sober  patience,  and  there  across  the  first  three 
column  heads,  following  the  direction  of  Old  Jerry's! 
quivering  forefinger,  he  found  his  first  inkling  of  the, 
astounding  news. 

"Jed  The  Red  wins  by  knockout  over  The  Texan  in 
fourteenth  round,"  ran  the  red-inked  caption. 

Word  by  word  he  read  it  through,  and  a  second 
time  his  grave  eyes  went  through  it,  even  more  pains-) 
takingly,  as  though  he  had  not  caught  at  a  single 
reading  all  its  sensational  significance.  Then  he 
looked  up  into  the  seamed  old  face  above  him,  a-gleam, 
and  a-quiver  with  excitement. 

"Jed  The  Red,"  the  boy  said  in  his  steady  voice. 
"Jed  The  Red!"  And  then,  levelly:  "Who's  he?" 

Old  Jerry  stared  at  him  a  moment  before  he  shook 


68  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

his  head  hopelessly  and  collapsed  with  a  thud  upon 
the  torn  seat  behind  him,  in  an  excess  of  disgust  for 
the  boy's  stupidity  which  he  made  no  effort  to  con 
ceal. 

"Jed  who?"  he  mimicked,  his  voice  shrill  with  sar 
casm.  "Now  what  in  time  Jed  would  it  be,  if  'twa'n't 
Jeddy  Conway — our  own  Jeddy  Conway  from  this 
very  village?  What  other  Jed  is  there?  Ain't  you 
got  no  memory  at  all,  when  you  ought  to  be  proud 
to  be  able  to  say  that  you  went  to  school  with  him 
yourself,  right  in  this  town?" 

Again  Young  Denny  nodded  a  silent  agreement,  but 
Old  Jerry's  feverish  enthusiasm  had  carried  him  far 
beyond  mere  anger  at  his  audience's  apparent  lack  of 
appreciation. 

"And  that  ain't  all,"  he  rushed  on  breathlessly,  "not 
by  a  lot,  it  ain't !  That  ain't  nothin'  to  compare  with 
what's  to  come.  Why,  right  this  minute  there's  a 
newspaper  writer  down  to  the  village — he's  from 
New  York  and  he's  been  stayin'  to  the  Tavern  ever 
since  he  come  in  this  morning  and  asked  for  a  room 
with  a  bath — and  he's  goin'  to  write  up  the  town. 
Yes  sir-e-e — the  whole  dad-blamed  town  !  Pictures  of 
the  main  street  and  the  old  place  where  Jeddy  went 
to  school,  like  as  not,  and — and" — he  hesitated  for 
an  instant  to  recall  the  exact  phrasing — "and  inter 
views  with  the  older  citizens  who  recognized  his  abil 
ity  and  gave  him  a  few  pointers  in  the  game  when  he 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  69 

was  only  a  little  tad.  That's  what's  to  follow,  and  it's 
cominf  out  in  the  New  York  papers,  too — Sunday 
supplement,  colors,  maybe,  and — and " 

Sudden  recollection  checked  him  in  the  middle  of 
the  tumbled  flow  of  information.  Leaning  far  out 
over  the  dash,  he  put  all  his  slight  weight  against  the 
reins  and  turned  the  fat  white  mare  back  into  the  road 
with  astonishing  celerity. 

"Godfrey,  but  that  makes  me  think,"  he  gasped. 
"I  ain't  got  no  time  to  fritter  away  here !  I  got  to 
git  down  to  the  Tavern  in  a  hurry.  He'll  be  waitin' 
to  hear  what  I  kin  tell  him." 

The  thin,  wrinkled  old  face  twisted  into  a  hopeful, 
wheedling  smile. 

"You  know  that,  don't  you,  Denny?  You  could  tell 
him  that  there  wa'n't  nobody  in  the  hills  knew  little 
Jeddy  Conway  better'n  I  did,  couldn't  you?  It — it's 
the  last  chance  I'll  ever  git,  too,  more'n  likely. 

"Twice  I  missed  out — once  when  they  found  Maty 
Hubbard's  husband  a-hangin'  to  his  hay  mow — 
a-hangin  by  the  very  new  clothes-line  Mary'd  just 
bought  the  day  before  and  ain't  ever  been  able  to  use 
since  on  account  of  her  feelin'  somehow  queer  about  it 
— and  me  laid  up  to  home  sick  all  the  time !  Every 
body  else  got  their  names  mentioned  in  the  article, 
and  Judge  Maynard  had  his  picture  printed  because 
it  was  the  Judge  cut  him  down.  'Twa'n't  fair,  didn't 
seem  to  me,  and  me  older'n  any  of  'em. 


70  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

"And  'twas  just  the  same  when  they  found  Mrs. 
Higgins's  Johnny,  who  had  to  go  and  git  through  the 
ice  into  the  crick  just  the  one  week  in  all  the  winter 
when  I  was  laid  up  with  a  bad  foot  from  splittin' 
kindling.  I  begun  to  think  I  wasn't  ever  goin'  to  git 
my  chance — but  it's  come.  It's  come  at  last — and  I 
got  to  cut  along  and  be  there !" 

Once  more  he  leaned  over  the  dash  and  slapped  the 
old  mare's  back  with  the  slack  of  the  lines. 

uGit  there,  you,"  he  urged,  and  the  complaining 
buggy  went  lurching  down  the  rough  road  at  the  same 
unheard  of  pace  at  which  it  had  ascended.  Halfway 
down  the  hill,  after  he  had  lifted  the  mare  from  her 
shuffing  fox-trot  to  a  lumbering  gallop,  Old  Jerry 
turned  back  for  a  last  shouted  word. 

"He'll  be  anxious  to  git  all  I  can  tell  him,  don't 
you  think?"  the  shrill  falsetto  drifted  back  to  the  boy 
who  had  not  stirred  in  his  tracks.  "No  article  would 
be  complete  without  that,  would  it?  And  they's 
to  be  pictures — Sunday  paper — and — maybe — in 
colors  1" 

There  was  an  odd  light  burning  in  Denny  Bolton's 
eyes  as  he  stood  and  watched  the  crazy  conveyance 
disappear  from  view.  The  half  hungry,  half  sullen 
bewilderment  seemed  to  have  given  place  to  a  new 
confusion,  as  though  all  the  questions  which  had  al 
ways  been  baffling  him  had  become,  all  in  one  breath, 
an  astounding  enigma  which  clamored  for  instant 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  7 1 

solution.  Not  until  the  shrill  scream  of  the  ungreased 
axles  had  died  out  altogether  and  his  eyes  fell  once 
more  to  the  vivid  streak  of  red  that  ran  across  the 
top  of  the  sheet  still  clutched  in  his  hand  did  Young 
Denny  realize  that  Jerry  had  even  failed  to  leave  him 
the  rest  of  his  mail — the  bulky  package  of  circulars. 

He  was  smiling  again  as  he  turned  and  went  slowly 
toward  the  back  door  of  the  house,  but  somehow,  as 
he  went,  the  stoop  of  his  big  shoulders  seemed  to  have 
even  more  than  the  usual  vague  hint  of  weariness  in 
their  heavy  droop.  He  even  forgot  that  the  hungry 
team  which  he  had  stabled  just  a  few  minutes  before 
was  still  unfed,  as  he  dropped  upon  the  top  step  and 
spread  the  paper  out  across  his  knees. 

"Jed  The  Red  wins  by  knockout  over  The  Texan  in 
fourteenth  round,"  he  read  again  and  again. 

And  then,  with  a  slow  forefinger  blazing  the  way, 
he  went  on  through  the  detailed  account  of  the  latest 
big  heavyweight  match,  from  the  first  paragraph, 
which  stated  that  "Jed  Conway,  having  disposed  of 
The  Texan  at  the  Arena  last  night,  by  the  knockout 
route  in  the  fourteenth  round,  seems  to  loom  up  as 
the  logical  claimant  of  the  white  heavyweight  title," 
to  the  last  one  of  all,  which  pithily  advised  the  public 
that  "the  winner's  share  of  the  receipts  amounted  to 
twelve  thousand  dollars." 

It  was  all  couched  in  the  choicest  vocabulary  of  the 
ringside,  and  more  than  once  Young  Denny,  whose 


72  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

literature  had  been  confined  chiefly  to  harvesters  and 
sulky  plows,  had  to  stop  and  decipher  phrases  which 
he  only  half  understood  at  first  reading.  But  that 
last  paragraph  he  did  not  fail  to  grasp. 

It  grew  too  dark  for  him  to  make  out  the  small 
type  any  longer  and  the  boy  folded  the  paper  and 
laid  it  back  across  his  knees.  With  his  chin  resting 
upon  one  big  palm  he  sat  motionless,  staring  out  be 
yond  his  sprawling,  unpainted  sheds  toward  the  dim 
bulk  of  his  hilly  acres,  with  their  jagged  outcroppings 
of  rock. 

"Twelve  thousand  dollars!"  He  muttered  the 
words  aloud,  under  his  breath.  Eight  hundred  in 
three  years  had  seemed  to  him  an  almost  miraculous 
amount  for  him  to  have  torn  from  that  thin  soil  with 
nothing  but  the  strength  of  his  two  hands.  Now, 
with  a  bitterness  that  had  been  months  in  accumulat 
ing,  it  beat  in  upon  his  brain  with  sledgelike  blows 
that  he  had  paid  too  great  a  price — too  great  a  price 
in  aching  shoulders  and  numbed  thighs. 

Methodically,  mechanically,  his  mind  went  back 
over  the  days  when  he  had  gone  to  school  with  Jed 
Conway — the  same  Jed  The  Red  whom  the  whole 
town  was  now  welcoming  as  "our  own  Jeddy,"  and 
the  longer  he  pondered  the  greater  the  problem  be 
came. 

It  was  hard  to  understand.  From  his  point  of  view 
comprehension  was  impossible,  at  that  instant.  For 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  73 

in  those  earlier  days,  when  anybody  had  ever  men 
tioned  Jed  Conway  at  all,  it  had  been  only  to  describe 
him  as  "good  for  nothing,"  or  something  profanely 
worse.  Young  Denny  remembered  him  vividly  as  a 
big,  freckle-faced,  bow-legged  boy  with  red  bristly 
hair — the  biggest  boy  in  the  school — who  never 
played  but  what  he  cheated,  and  always  seemed  able 
to  lie  himself  out  of  his  thievery. 

But  most  vividly  of  all,  he  recalled  that  day  when 
Jed  Conway  had  disappeared  from  the  village  be 
tween  sundown  and  dawn  and  failed  to  return.  That 
was  the  same  day  they  discovered  the  shortage  in 
the  old  wooden  till  at  Benson's  corner  store.  And 
now  Jed  Conway  had  come  home,  or  at  least  his 
fame  had  found  its  way  back,  and  even  Old  Jerry, 
whipping  madly  toward  the  village  to  share  in  his 
reflected  glory,  had,  for  all  the  perfection  of  his 
"system,"  failed  to  leave  the  very  bundle  of  mail 
which  he  had  come  to  deliver. 

For  a  long  time  Young  Denny  sat  and  tried  to 
straighten  it  out  in  his  brain — and  failed  entirely.  It 
had  grown  very  dark — too  dark  for  him  to  make  out 
the  words  upon  it — when  he  reached  into  the  pocket 
of  his  gray  flannel  shirt  and  drew  out  the  card  which 
he  had  found  lying  upon  the  kitchen  floor  that  pre 
vious  Saturday  night,  after  he  had  lighted  Dryad  An 
derson  on  her  way  home  through  the  thickets.  But 
he  did  not  need,  or  even  attempt,  to  read  it. 


74  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

"And  it  took  me  a  month,"  he  said  aloud  to  the 
empty  air  before  him,  "almost  a  month  to  save  fifteen 
dollars." 

He  rose  at  the  words,  stiffly,  for  the  chill  air  had 
tightened  his  muscles,  and  stood  a  moment  indecisive 
ly  contemplating  the  lights  which  were  beginning  to 
glimmer  through  the  dusk  in  the  hollow,  before  he, 
too,  took  the  long  road  to  the  village  down  which  Old 
Jerry  had  rattled  a  scant  hour  or  two  before. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  Tavern  "office"  was  crowded  and  hazy 
with  acrid  blue  smoke.  Behind  the  chairs  of 
the  favored  members  of  the  old  circle,  who 
always  sat  in  nightly  conclave  about  the  stove,  a  long 
row  of  men  lounged  against  the  wall,  but  the  bitter 
controversies  of  other  nights  were  still.  Instead,  the 
entire  room  was  leaning  forward,  hanging  breathless 
ly  upon  the  words  of  the  short  fat  man  who  was 
perched  alone  upon  the  worn  desk,  too  engrossed  even 
to  notfce  Young  Denny's  entrance  that  night. 

The  boy  stood  for  a  moment,  his  hand  still  clasp 
ing  the  knob  behind  him,  while  his  eyes  flickered  curi 
ously  over  the  heads  of  the  crowd.  Even  before  he 
drew  the  door  shut  behind  him  he  saw  that  Judge 
Maynard's  chair  was  a  good  foot  in  advance  of  all 
the  others,  directly  in  front  of  the  stranger  on  the 
desk,  and  that  the  rest  of  the  room  was  furtively  tak 
ing  its  cue  from  him — pounding  its  knee  and  laughing 
immoderately  whenever  he  laughed,  or  settling  back 
luxuriously  whenever  the  Judge  relaxed  in  his  chair. 

Subconsciously  Young  Denny  realized  that  such 
had  always  been  the  recognized  order  of  arrange 
ment,  ever  since  he  could  remember.  The  Judge 


76  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

always  rode  in  front  in  the  parades  and  invariably  de 
livered  the  Fourth  of  July  oration.  Undisputed  he 
held  the  one  vantage  point  in  the  room,  but  over  his 
amply  broad  back,  as  near  as  he  dared  lean,  bent  Old 
Jerry,  his  thin  face  working  with  alternate  hope  and 
half  fearful  uncertainty. 

Denny  Bolton  would  have  recognized  the  man  on 
the  desk  as  the  "newspaper  writer"  from  New  York 
from  his  clothes  alone,  even  without  the  huge  note 
book  that  was  propped  up  on  his  knees  for  corrobora 
tive  evidence.  From  the  soft  felt  hat,  pushed  care 
lessly  back  from  his  round,  good-natured  face,  to  the 
tips  of  his  gleaming  low  shoes,  the  newcomer  was  a 
symphony  in  many-toned  browns.  And  as  Young 
Denny  closed  the  door  behind  him  he  went  on  talking 
— addressing  the  entire  throng  before  him  with  an 
easy  good-fellowship  that  bordered  on  intimate 
camaraderie. 

"Just  the  good  old-fashioned  stuff,"  he  was  say 
ing;  "the  sort  of  thing  that  has  always  been  the  back 
bone  of  the  country.  That  is  what  I  want  it  to  be. 
For,  you  see,  it's  like  this :  We  haven't  had  a  cham 
pion  who  came  from  our  own  real  old  Puritan  stock 
in  years  and  years  like  Conway  has,  and  it'll  stir  up 
a  whole  lot  of  enthusiasm — a  whole  lot !  I  want  to 
play  that  part  of  it  up  big.  Now,  you're  the  only  ones 
who  can  give  me  that — you're  the  only  men  who  knew 
him  when  he  was  a  boy — and  right  there  let's  make 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  77 

that  a  starter!  What  sort  of  a  youngster  was  he? 
Quite  a  handful,  I  should  imagine — now  wasn't  he?" 

The  man  on  the  desk  crossed  one  fat  knee  over  the 
other,  tapping  a  flat-heeled  shoe  with  his  pencil.  He 
tilted  the  brown  felt  hat  a  little  farther  back  from  his 
forehead  and  winked  one  eye  at  the  Judge  in  jovial 
understanding.  And  Judge  Maynard  also  crossed  his 
knees,  tucked  his  thumbs  into  his  waistcoat  pockets, 
and  winked  back  with  equal  joviality. 

"Well,  ye-e-s,"  he  agreed,  and  the  agreement  was 
weightily  deliberate.  "Ye-e-s,  quite  a  handful  was 
Jeddy." 

One  pudgy  hand  was  uplifted  in  sudden,  depreca 
tory  haste,  as  though  he  would  not  be  misunderstood. 

"Nothing  really  wrong,  of  course,"  he  hurried  to 
add  with  oratorical  emphasis.  "Nothing  like  that! 
There  never  was  anything  mean  or  sneaking  about 
Jeddy,  s'far  as  I  can  recollect.  Just  mischievous — 
mischievous  and  up  and  coming  all  the  time.  But 
there  were  folks,"  Judge  Maynard's  voice  became 
heavy  with  righteous  accusation — "it's  always  that 
way,  you  understand — and  there  were  folks,  even 
right  here  in  Jeddy's  own  village,  who  used  to  call 
him  a  bad  egg.  But  I — I  knew  better !  Nothing  but 
mischievousness  and  high  spirits — that's  what  I  al 
ways  thought.  And  I  said  it,  too — many's  the  time 
I  Said " 

The  big  shouldered  boy  near  the  door  shifted  his 


78  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

position  a  little.  He  leaned  forward  until  he  could 
see  Judge  Maynard's  round,  red  face  a  little  more 
distinctly.  There  was  an  odd  expression  upon  Denny 
Bolton's  features  when  the  fat  man  in  brown  lifted  his 
eyes  from  his  notebook,  eyes  that  twinkled  with  sym 
pathetic  comprehension. 

" That  it  was  better  a  bad  egg  than  an  ome 
lette,  eh?"  he  interrupted  knowingly. 

The  Judge  pounded  his  knee  and  rocked  with 
mirth. 

"Well,  that's  just  about  it — that's  just  about  as 
near  as  words  could  come  to  it,"  he  managed  to  gasp, 
and  the  circle  behind  him  rocked,  too,  and  pounded 
its  knee  as  one  man. 

The  man  on  the  desk  went  on  working  industrious 
ly  with  his  pencil,  even  while  he  was  speaking. 

"And  then  I  suppose  he  was  pretty  good  with  his 
hands,  too,  even  when  he  was  a  little  shaver?"  he 
suggested  tentatively.  "But  then  I  don't  suppose  that 
any  one  of  you  ever  dreamed  that  you  had  a  world's 
champion,  right  here  at  home,  in  the  making,  did 
you?" 

The  whole  room  leaned  nearer.  Even  the  late 
comer  near  the  door  forgot  himself  entirely  and  took 
one  step  forward,  his  narrowing  gray  eyes  straining 
upon  the  Judge's  face. 

Judge  Maynard  again  weighed  his  reply,  word  for 
word. 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  79 

"We-e-11,  no,"  he  admitted.  "I  don't  believe  I 
can  say  that  I  downright  believed  that  he'd  make  a 
world's  champion.  Don't  believe's  I  could  truthfully 
state  that  I  thought  that.  But  I  guess  there  isn't  any 
body  in  this  town  that  would  ever  deny  but  what  I 
did  say  more  than  once  that  he'd  make  the  best  of  'em 
hustle — ye-e-s,  sir,  the  very  best  of  'em,  some  day!" 

The  speaker  turned  to  face  the  hushed  room  be 
hind  him,  as  if  to  challenge  contradiction,  and  Young 
Denny,  waiting  for  some  one  to  speak,  touched  his 
dry  lips  with  the  tip  of  his  tongue.  But  no  contra 
diction  came.  Instead  Old  Jerry,  leaning  across  the 
Judge's  broad  back,  quavered  breathlessly. 

"That's  jest  it — that's  jest  as  it  was — right  to  a 
hair.  It  was  system  done  it — system  right  from  the 
very  beginning.  And  many's  the  time  the  Judge  says 
to  me — says  he 

Old  Jerry  never  finished,  for  Judge  Maynard  lifted 
one  hand  majestically  and  the  little  white-haired  old 
man's  eager  corroboration  died  on  his  lips.  He  shrank 
back  into  abashed  silence,  his  lips  working  wordlessly. 

"As  I  was  saying,"  the  Judge  then  proceeded  pon 
derously,  "I  recognized  he  had  what  one  could  call 
— er " 

"Class?"  the  man  on  the  desk  broke  in  again  with 
his  engaging  smile. 

"Well,  yes,"  the  other  continued,  "or,  as  I  was 
about  to  call  it,  talent.  From  the  very  first  that  was 


8o  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

very  apparent,  but  then,  of  course,  a  man  in  my  po 
sition  in  the  community  could  scarcely  have  been  the 
one  to  encourage  him  openly.  But  he  was  pretty 
good,  even  as  a  little  shaver !  Why,  there  was  noth 
ing  among  the  boys  that  he  wouldn't  tackle — absolute 
ly  nothing!  Size,  sir,  never  made  any  difference  to 
him — not  a  particle.  Jeddy  Conway  fight !" 

Again  he  turned  to  the  close-packed  circle  behind 
him  as  if  mere  words  were  too  weak  things  to  do  the 
question  justice.  And  this  time  as  he  turned  his  eyes 
met  squarely  those  of  the  gray-shirted  figure  that  was 
staring  straight  back  at  him  in  a  kind  of  fascination. 
For  one  disconcerted  instant  Judge  Maynard  wav 
ered;  he  caught  his  breath  before  that  level  scrutiny; 
then  with  a  flourish  of  utter  finality  he  threw  up  one 
pudgy  hand. 

"There's  one  of  'em  right  now,"  he  cried.  "There's 
Young  Denny  Bolton,  who  went  to  school  with  him, 
right  here  in  this  town.  Ask  him  if  Jed  Conway  was 
pretty  handy  as  a  boy!  Ask  him,"  he  leered  around 
the  room,  an  insinuating  accent  that  was  unmistak 
able  underrunning  the  words.  Then  a  deep-throated 
chuckle  shook  him.  "But  maybe  he  won't  tel! — may 
be  he's  still  a  little  mite  too  sensitive  to  talk  about  it 
yet.  Eh,  Denny — just  a  little  mite  too  sensitive?" 

Denny  Bolton  failed  to  realize  it  at  that  moment, 
but  there  was  a  new  quality  in  the  Judge's  chuckling 
statement — a  certain  hearty  admission  of  equality 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  8 1 

which  he  had  only  a  second  before  denied  to  Old 
Jerry's  eager  endeavor  to  help.  The  eyes  of  the  fat 
man  in  brown  lifted  inquiringly  from  the  notebook 
upon  his  knees  and  followed  the  direction  of  the 
Judge's  outstretched  finger.  He  was  still  grinning 
•expansively — and  then  as  he  saw  more  clearly  through 
the  thick  smoke  the  face  which  Judge  Maynard  was 
indicating,  the  grin  disappeared. 

Little  by  little  Young  Denny's  body  straightened 
until  the  slight  shoulder  stoop  had  entirely  vanished, 
and  all  the  while  that  his  gaze  never  wavered  from 
the  Judge's  face  his  eyes  narrowed  and  his  lips  grew 
thinner  and  thinner.  The  confused  lack  of  understand 
ing  was  gone,  too,  at  last,  from  his  eyes.  He  even 
smiled  once,  a  fleeting,  mirthless  smile  that  tugged 
at  the  corners  of  his  wide  mouth.  For  the  moment 
he  had  forgotten  the  circle  of  peering  faces.  The 
room  was  very  still. 

It  was  the  man  on  the  desk  who  finally  broke  that 
quiet,  but  when  he  spoke  his  voice  had  lost  its  easily 
intimate  goodfellowship.  He  spoke  instead  in  a  low- 
toned  directness. 

"So  you  went  to  school  with  Jed  The  Red,  did 
you?"  he  asked  gravely.  "Knew  him  when  he  was  a 
kid?" 

Slowly  Denny  Bolton's  eyes  traveled  from  the 
Judge's  face.  His  lips  opened  with  equal  deliberation. 

"I  reckon  I  knew  him — pretty  well,"  he  admitted. 


82  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

The  eyes  of  the  man  in  brown  were  a  little  nar 
rower,  too,  as  he  nodded  thoughtfully. 

"Er — had  a  few  set-to's  with  him,  yourself,  now 
and  then?" 

He  smiled,  but  even  his  smile  was  gravely  direct. 
Again  there  was  a  heavy  silence  before  Young  Denny 
replied. 

Then,  "Maybe,"  he  said,  noncommittally.  "May 
be  I  did." 

The  throbbing  silence  in  that  room  went  all  to  bits. 
Judge  Maynard  wheeled  in  his  chair  toward  the  man 
on  the  desk  and  fell  to  pounding  his  knee  again  in 
the  excess  of  his  appreciation. 

"Maybe,"  he  chortled,  "maybe  he  did!     Well— 
I — reckon !" 

And,  following  his  lead,  the  whole  room  rocked 
with  laughter  in  which  all  but  the  man  in  brown 
joined.  He  alone,  from  his  place  on  the  desk,  saw 
that  there  was  a  white  circle  about  the  boy's  tight 
mouth  as  Young  Denny  turned  and  fumbled  with  the 
latch  before  he  opened  the  door  and  passed  quietly  out 
into  the  night.  He  alone  noticed,  but  there  was  the 
faintest  shadow  of  a  queer  smile  upon  his  own  lips 
as  he  turned  back  to  the  big  notebook  open  on  his 
knees — a  vaguely  unpleasant  smile  that  was  not  in 
keeping  with  the  rotund  jollity  of  his  face. 

For  a  moment  Denny  Bolton  stood  with  his  strained 
white  face  turned  upward,  the  roar  in  the  room 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  83 

behind  him  beating  in  his  ears;  then  he  turned  and 
went  blindly  up  the  road  that  wound  toward  the  bleak 
house  on  the  hill — he  went  slowly  and  unsteadily, 
stumbling  now  and  again  in  the  deep  ruts  which  it 
was  too  dark  for  him  to  see. 

It  was  only  when  he  reached  the  crest  of  the  hill, 
where  Old  Jerry  had  failed  to  remember  to  leave  him 
his  mail  that  afternoon,  that  he  recalled  his  own 
failure  to  feed  the  team  with  which  he  had  been 
ploughing  all  day  back  in  the  fields.  And  in  the  same 
blind,  automatic  fashion  he  crossed  and  threw  open 
the  door  of  the  barn. 

The  interior  was  dark,  blacker  even  than  the  thick 
darkness  of  the  night  outside.  Young  Denny,  mut 
tering  to  himself,  forgot  to  strike  a  light — he  even 
forgot  to  speak  aloud  to  the  nervous  animals  in  the 
stalls  until  his  fingers,  groping  ahead  of  him,  touched 
something  sleek  and  warm  and  brought  him  back  to 
himself.  Then,  instinctively,  although  it  was  too  late, 
he  threw  up  one  big  shoulder  to  protect  his  face  be 
fore  he  was  lifted  and  hurled  crashing  back  against 
the  wall  by  the  impact  of  the  heavy  hoofs  that  cata 
pulted  out  of  the  blackness.  A  moment  the  boy  stood, 
swayed  sickeningly,  and  sank  to  his  knees.  Then  he 
began  to  think  clearly  again,  and  with  one  hand 
clasped  over  the  great,  jagged  gash  which  the  glanc 
ing  iron  shoe  had  laid  open  across  his  chin,  he  reached 
up  and  found  a  cross  beam  and  dragged  himself  erect. 


84  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

"Whoa,  Tommy,  whoa  boy!"  he  soothed  the  danc 
ing  horse.  "Steady,  it's  only  me,  boy !"  he  stammered, 
and  supporting  himself  against  the  wall  he  groped 
again  until  he  found  the  feedbin  and  finished  his 
day's  work. 

It  was  even  darker  in  the  bare  kitchen  when  he 
lurched  dizzily  through  the  door.  Once  as  he  was 
feeling  his  way  along  the  wall,  searching  for  a  light, 
his  feet  stumbled  on  a  hard  rounded  object  against 
the  wainscoting,  and  as  it  toppled  over  its  contents 
ran  with  a  slopping  gurgle  over  the  floor. 

Then  his  fingers  found  the  light.  Holding  himself 
with  one  hand,  he  lifted  the  little  lamp  with  its  black 
ened  chimney  from  its  bracket  and  raised  it  until  it 
illuminated  his  features  reflected  in  the  small  square 
mirror  that  hung  against  the  wall.  For  a  long  time  he 
stood  and  looked.  The  blood  that  oozed  from  the 
ugly  bruise  upon  his  chin  was  splashing  in  warm 
drops  to  the  floor;  his  face  was  paper  white,  and 
strangely  taut  and  twisted  with  pain,  but  the  boy 
noticed  neither  the  one  nor  the  other.  Straight  back 
into  his  own  eyes  he  stared — stared  steadily  for  all 
that  his  big  shoulders  were  swaying  drunkenly.  And 
for  the  first  time  that  he  could  ever  recollect  Young 
Denny  Bolton  laughed — laughed  with  real  mirth. 

He  placed  the  smoking  lamp  upon  the  bare  board 
table  and  turned.  As  if  they  could  still  hear  him — the 
circle  about  the  Tavern  stove  in  the  valley  below — 


'  DRYAD,  IT'S  ALL  RIGHT— IT'S  ALWAYS  BEEN  ALL  RIGHT— WITH  US  ! 
THEY  LIED— THEY  LIED  AND  THEY  KNEW  THEY  WERE  LYING!  " 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  85 

he  lifted  both  hard  fists  and  tightened  them  until 
the  hea\Ty  muscles  beneath  his  shirt  bunched  and  quiv 
ered  like  live  things. 

"Size  never  made  any  difference  to  him?"  he  re 
peated  the  Judge's  word  aloud,  with  a  drawling  in 
terrogation.  "Size  never  made  any  difference  to  him?" 

He  laughed  again,  softly,  as  if  there  were  a  newly 
discovered  humor  about  it  all  which  must  be  jealously 
guarded. 

"It  never  had  to  make  any  difference,"  the  drawl 
ing  voice  went  on,  "it  didn't  have  to — because 
Jed  Conway  was  always  the  biggest  boy  in  the 
school!" 

His  nostrils  were  dilating,  twitching  with  the  thin, 
sharp,  odor  of  the  overturned  demijohn  which  was 
rising  and  thickening  in  the  room.  His  eyes  fell  and 
for  the  first  time  became  conscious  of  it  lying  there  at 
his  feet.  And  he  stooped  and  picked  it  up,  lifting  it 
between  both  hands  until  it  was  level  with  his  face — 
until  it  was  held  at  arm's  length  high  above  his  head. 
Then  his  whole  body  snapped  forward  and  the  glass 
from  the  broken  window  pane  jingled  musically  on 
the  floor  as  the  jug  crashed  out  into  the  night. 

Young  Denny  stood  and  smiled,  one  side  of  his 
chin  a  gash  of  crimson  against  the  dead  white  of  his 
face.  Again  he  lifted  his  fists. 

"He  never  whipped  me,"  he  challenged  the  lights 
in  the  hollow,  "he  never  whipped  me — and  he  never 


86  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

tried  but  once !  I — I — ain't  never  been — whipped — 
yet!" 

There  had  been  no  sound  to  herald  her  coming  as 
she  darted  up  to  the  door.  Reeling  giddily  there  in 
the  middle  of  the  room,  he  had  not  even  heard  the 
one  low  cry  that  she  choked  back  as  she  stopped  at 
the  threshold,  but  he  half  turned  that  moment  and 
met  the  benumbed  horror  of  Dryad  Anderson's  eyes. 
Minute  after  minute  he  merely  stood  and  stared  back 
at  her  stupidly,  while  bit  by  bit  every  detail  of  her 
transformation  began  to  penetrate  his  brain,  still 
foggy  with  the  force  of  the  blow  that  had  laid  his 
chin  wide  open.  Her  tumbled  hair  was  piled  high 
upon  her  head;  she  was  almost  tall  with  the  added 
height  of  the  high-heeled  satin  slippers;  more  slender 
than  ever  in  the  bespangled  clinging  black  skirt  and 
sleeveless  scarlet  waist  which  the  old  cloak,  slipping 
unheeded  from  her  shoulders,  had  disclosed. 

As  his  brain  began  to  clear  Young  Denny  forgot 
the  dripping  blood  that  made  his  white  face  ghastly, 
he  forgot  the  stinging  odor  of  the  broken  demijohn, 
thick  in  the  room — forgot  everything  but  Judge  May- 
nard's  face  when  the  latter  had  looked  up  and  found 
him  standing  at  the  Tavern  door.  He  knew  now  what 
the  light  was  that  had  lurked  in  their  shifty  depths; 
it  was  fear — fear  that  he — Young  Denny — might 
speak  up  in  that  moment  and  disclose  all  the  hypoc 
risy  of  his  suave  lies.  He  even  failed  to  see  the 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  87 

horror  in  the  eyes  of  the  girl  before  him.  Sudden,  reck 
less  laughter  rang  from  his  lips. 

"Dryad,"  he  cried  out.  "Dryad,  it's  all  right — it's 
always  been  all  right — with  us  !  They  lied — they  lied 
and  they  knew  they  were  lying!" 

She  shrank  back,  as  if  all  the  strength  had  been 
drained  from  her  knees,  as  he  lurched  unsteadily 
across  toward  her  and  reached  out  his  arms.  But 
at  the  touch  of  his  hands  upon  her  shoulders  the 
power  of  action  came  rushing  back  into  her  limbs. 
She  shuddered  and  whirled — and  shook  off  his  grop 
ing  fingers.  Her  own  hands  flashed  out  and  held  his 
face  away  from  her. 

"Don't  you  touch  me!"  she  panted  huskily.  "Oh, 
you — you — don't  you  even  dare  to  come  near 
me!" 

He  tried  to  explain — tried  to  follow  her  swift 
flight  as  she  leaped  back,  but  his  feet  became  entangled 
in  the  cloak  on  the  floor  and  brought  him  heavily  to 
his  knees.  He  even  tried  to  follow  her  after  she  had 
been  swallowed  up  in  the  shadows  outside,  until  he 
realized  dully  that  his  shuffling  feet  would  not  go 
where  his  whirling  head  directed  them.  Once  he 
called  out  to  her,  before  he  staggered  back  to  the 
kitchen  door,  and  received  no  answer. 

With  his  hands  gripping  the  door  frame  he  eased 
himself  down  to  the  top  step  and  sat  rocking  gently 
to  and  fro. 


88  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

"S'all  right,"  he  muttered  once,  his  tongue  thick 
with  pain.  "S'always  been  all  right!" 

And  he  laughed  aloud,  a  laugh  of  utter  confidence 
in  spite  of  all  its  unsteadiness. 

"Twelve  thousand  dollars,"  he  said,  "and — and  he 
never  whipped  me!  He  never  could — not  the  best 
day  he  ever  lived!" 


CHAPTER  VII 

DENNY  BOLTON  never  quite  knew  at  what 
hour  of  that  long  black  night  he  reached  the 
final  decision;  there  was  no  actual  beginning 
or  ending  or  logical  sequence  to  the  argument  in  the 
back  of  his  brain  which  led  up  to  it,  to  crystallize  into 
final  resolve. 

He  merely  sat  there  in  the  open  door  of  his  half- 
lighted  kitchen,  swaying  a  little  from  side  to  side  at 
first,  giddy  with  the  pain  of  that  crashing  blow  that 
had  laid  open  his  chin;  then  balancing,  motionless  as 
the  thick  shadows  themselves,  in  a  silence  that  was 
unbroken  save  for  the  creaking  night  noises  about 
him  and  the  rhythmic  splash  of  the  warm  drops  that 
fell  more  and  more  slowly  from  the  gaping,  unheeded 
wound,  he  groped  back  over  the  succession  of  events 
of  that  afternoon  and  night,  reconstructing  with  a  sort 
of  dogged  patience  detail  after  detail  which  was 
waveringly  uncertain  of  outline,  until  with  the  clearing 
of  his  numbed  brain  they  stood  out  once  again  in  sane, 
well-ordered  clarity.  And  as  they  gradually  took 
shape  again  each  detail  grew  only  more  fantastically 
unbelievable. 

It  seemed  ages  since  he  had  stood  against  the  closed 


90 

door  of  the  Tavern  office  and  seen  Judge  Maynard 
turn  and  falter  before  his  unsuspected  presence — 
days  and  days  since  he  had  stood  there  and  watched 
that  round  moon-like  face  flush  heavily  with  the  first 
shock  of  surprise,  and  realized  that  the  startled  light 
in  the  shifty  eyes  of  Boltonwood's  most  prominent 
citizen  was  part  fear,  part  appeal,  that  he,  Denny 
Bolton,  whose  name  in  the  estimation  of  that  same 
village  stood  for  all  that  was  at  the  other  extreme, 
would  confirm  and  support  his  bare-faced  lying  state 
ment.  It  was  more  than  merely  fantastic;  and  yet, 
at  that,  sitting  there  in  the  dark,  Young  Denny  still 
found  something  in  the  recollection  that  was  amus 
ing — far  more  amusing  than  he  had  imagined  any 
thing  so  simple  ever  could  be. 

And  already,  although  it  was  scarcely  hours  old, 
the  rest  of  it,  too,  was  tinged  with  an  uncanny  unreal 
ity  that  was  not  far  removed  from  the  bodiless  fabric 
of  nightmare  itself:  Those  great,  catapulting  hoofs 
which  had  thundered  against  him  from  the  darkness 
and  beaten  him  back,  a  half-senseless  heap,  against 
the  barn  wall ;  the  blind,  mad  rage,  as  much  a  wildly 
hysterical  abandonment  of  utter  joy  as  anything  else, 
which  had  surged  through  him  when,  with  the  sting 
ing  odor  of  the  overturned  jug  in  his  nostrils,  he  had 
stooped  and  straightened  and  sent  the  old  stone  demi 
john,  that  had  stood  sentinel  for  years  in  the  corner 
near  the  door,  splintering  its  way  through  the  window 


ONCE  TO  EVER1  MAN  91 

into  the  night;  and,  last  of  all,  the  sick  horror  of  the 
girl's  face  as  she  recoiled  before  him  came  vividly  be 
fore  his  eyes,  and  his  own  strange  impotence  of  limb 
and  lip  when  he  had  tried  to  follow  and  found  that 
his  feet  would  not  obey  the  impulse  of  his  brain,  tried 
to  explain  only  to  find  that  his  tongue  somehow  re 
fused  at  that  moment  to  voice  the  words  he  would 
have  spoken. 

That  was  hardest  of  all  to  believe — most  difficult 
to  visualize — and  he  would  not  give  it  full  credence 
until  he  had  reached  out  behind  him  in  the  dark  and 
found  the  bit  of  a  cloak  which,  slipping  from  her 
shoulders,  become  entangled  in  his  stumbling  feet  and 
brought  him  crashing  to  his  knees.  The  feel  of  that 
rough  cloth  beneath  his  hand  was  more  than  enough 
to  convince  him,  and  swiftly,  unreasonably,  the  old 
bitter  tide  of  resentment  began  to  creep  back  upon 
him — bitter  resentment  of  her  quick  judgment  of  him, 
which  like  that  of  the  village,  had  condemned  in  the 
years  that  were  past,  even  without  a  hearing. 

"She  thought,"  he  muttered  slowly  aloud  to  him 
self,  "she  thought  I  had — "  He  left  the  sentence 
unfinished  to  drift  off  into  a  long  brooding  silence; 
and  then,  many  minutes  later:  "She  didn't  even  wait 
to  ask — to  see — to  let  me  tell  her " 

One  hand  went  tentatively  to  the  point  of  his  chin 
— his  old,  vaguely  preoccupied  trick  of  a  gesture — and 
the  wet  touch  of  that  open  wound  helped  to  bring 


92  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

him  back  to  himself.  A  moment  longer  he  sat,  try 
ing  to  make  out  the  stained  figures  that  were  invisible 
even  though  he  held  them  a  scant  few  inches  from  his 
eyes,  before  he  rose,  stretching  his  legs  in  experimen 
tal  doubt  at  first,  and  passed  inside.  And  once  more 
he  stood  before  the  square  patch  of  mirror  on  the 
wall,  with  the  small  black-chimneyed  lamp  lifted  high 
in  one  hand,  just  as  he  had  stood  earlier  that  same 
night,,  and  scanned  his  own  face. 

All  trace  of  resentment  left  his  eyes  as  he  realized 
the  ghastly  pallor  of  those  features — all  the  ragged 
horror  of  that  oozing  welt  which  he  had  only  half 
seen  in  that  first  moment  when  he  was  clinging  to 
consciousness  with  clenched  teeth.  It  was  not  nice  to 
look  at,  and  the  light  that  replaced  that  sudden  flare 
of  bitterness  was  so  new  that  he  did  not  even  recog 
nize  it  himself  at  first. 

It  was  a  clearer,  steadier,  surer  thing  than  he  had 
ever  known  them  to  reflect  before;  all  hint  of  lost-dog 
sophistication  was  gone;  even  the  smile  that  touched 
his  thin,  pain-straightened  lips  was  different  somehow. 
It  was  just  as  whimsical  as  before,  and  just  as  half- 
mirthless — gentle  as  it  always  had  been  whenever  he 
thought  at  all  of  her — but  there  was  no  wistful  hunger 
left  in  it,  and  little  of  boyishness,  and  nothing  of 
lurking  self-doubt. 

"Why,  she  couldn't  have  known,"  he  went  on  then, 
still  murmuring  aloud.  "She  couldn't  have  been 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  93 

expected  to  believe  anything  else.  I — I'm  not  much  to 
look  at — just  now." 

He  even  forgot  that  he  had  tried  to  follow  her — 
forgot  that  her  cloak  had  thrown  him  sprawling  in  the 
doorway. 

"I  ought  to  have  told  her,"  he  condemned  himself. 
"I  shouldn't  have  let  her  go — not  like  that." 

In  the  fullness  of  this  new  certainty  of  self  that  was 
setting  his  pulses  hammering,  he  even  turned  toward 
the  sleeping  town,  thickly  blanketed  by  the  shadows 
in  the  valley,  in  a  sudden  boyish  burst  of  generosity. 

"Maybe  they  didn't  mean  to  lie,  either,"  he  mused 
thoughtfully.  "Maybe  they  haven't  really  meant  to 
lie — all  this  time.  They  could  have  been  mistaken, 
just  as  she  was  to-night — they  certainly  could  have 
been  that." 

He  found  and  filled  a  basin  with  cold  water  and 
washed  out  the  cut  until  the  bleeding  had  stopped 
entirely.  And  then,  with  the  paper  which  that  after 
noon's  mail  had  brought — the  sheet  with  the  astound 
ing  news  of  Jed  The  Red,  which  Old  Jerry  prophesied 
would  put  Boltonwood  in  black  letters  on  the  map  of 
publicity — spread  out  on  the  table  before  him,  he  sat 
until  daybreak  poring  over  it  with  eyes  that  were 
filmed  with  preoccupation  one  moment  and  keenly 
strained  the  next  to  make  out  the  close-set  type. 

Not  long  before  dawn  he  reached  inside  his  coat 
and  brought  out  a  bit  of  burnished  white  card  and  set 


94  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

it  up  in  front  of  him  against  the  lamp.  There  was 
much  in  the  plump,  black  capitals  and  knobby  script 
of  Judge  Maynard's  invitation  which  was  very  sug 
gestive  of  the  man  himself,  but  Young  Denny  failed 
to  catch  the  suggestion  at  that  moment. 

He  never  quite  knew  when  that  decision  became 
final,  nor  what  the  mental  process  was  which  brought 
it  about.  Nor  did  he  even  dream  of  the  connection 
there  might  have  been  between  it  and  that  square  of 
cardboard  lying  in  front  of  him.  Just  once,  as  the 
first  light  came  streaking  in  through  the  uncurtained 
window  beside  him,  he  nodded  his  head  in  deliberate, 
definite  finality. 

"Why,  it's  the  thing  I've  been  waiting  for,"  he 
stated,  something  close  akin  to  wonder  in  his  voice. 
"It's  just  a  man's  size  chance.  I'd  have  to  take  it — 
I'd  have  to  do  that,  even  if  I  didn't  want  to — for 
myself." 

And  later,  while  he  was  kindling  a  fire  in  the  stove 
and  methodically  preparing  his  own  breakfast,  he 
paused  to  add  with  what  seemd  to  be  absolute  irrele 
vance  : 

"Silk — silk,  next  to  her  skin !" 

There  were  only  two  trains  a  day  over  the  Dingle- 
track  spur  road  that  connected  Boltonwood  with  the 
outer  world  beyond  the  hills;  one  which  left  at  a 
most  unreasonably  inconvenient  hour  in  the  early 
morning  and  one  which  left  just  as  inconveniently  late 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  95 

at  night.  Denny  Bolton,  who  had  viewed  from  a  dis 
tinctly  unfavorable  angle  any  possible  enchantment 
which  the  town  might  chance  to  offer,  settled  upon 
the  first  as  trie  entirely  probable  choice  of  the  short, 
fat,  bro\vn-clad  newspaper  man,  even  without  a  mo 
ment's  hesitation  to  weigh  the  merits  of  either.  And 
the  sight  of  the  round  bulk  of  the  latter,  huddled  alone 
upon  a  baggage  truck  before  the  deserted  Boltonwood 
station-shed,  fully  vindicated  his  judgment. 

It  was  still  only  a  scant  hour  since  daybreak.  Heavy, 
low-hanging  clouds  in  the  east,  gray  with  threatening 
rain,  cut  off  any  warmth  there  might  have  been  in 
the  rising  sun  and  sharpened  the  raw  wind  to  a  knife- 
like  edge.  The  man  on  the  truck  was  too  engrossed 
with  the  thoughts  that  shook  his  plump  shoulders  in 
regularly  recurring,  silent  chuckles,  and  a  ludicrously 
doleful  effort  to  shut  off  with  upturned  collar  the  draft 
from  the  back  of  his  neck,  to  hear  the  boy's  approach 
ing  footsteps.  He  started  guiltily  to  his  feet  in  the 
very  middle  of  a  spasmodic  upheaval,  to  stand  and 
stare  questioningly  at  the  big  figure  whose  fingers  had 
plucked  tentatively  at  his  elbow,  until  a  sudden,  de 
lighted  recognition  flooded  his  face.  Then  he  reached 
out  one  pudgy  hand  with  eager  cordiality. 

"Why,  greetings — greetings!"  he  exclaimed. 
"Didn't  quite  recognize  you  with  your — er — decora 
tion."  His  eyes  dwelt  in  frank  inquisitiveness  upon 
the  ragged  red  bruise  across  Young  Denny's  chin. 


96  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

"You're  the  member  who  stood  near  the  door  last 
night,  aren't  you — the  one  who  didn't  join  to  any 
marked  degree  in  the  general  jubilee?" 

Young  Denny's  big,  hard  hand  closed  over  the  out 
stretched  pudgy  white  one.  He  grinned  a  little  and 
slowly  nodded  his  head. 

"Thought  so,"  the  man  in  brown  rambled  blithely 
on,  "and  glad  to  see  you  again.  Glad  of  a  chance  to 
speak  to  you !  I  wanted  most  mightily  to  ask  you  a 
few  pertinent  questions  last  night,  but  it  hardly  seemed 
a  fitting  occasion." 

He  tapped  Young  Denny's  arm  with  a  stubby  fore 
finger,  one  eyelid  drooping  quizzically. 

"Entre  nous — just  'twixt  thee  and  me,"  he  went 
on,  "and  not  for  publication,  was  this  Jeddy  Conway, 
as  you  knew  him,  all  that  your  eminent  citizenry 
would  lead  a  poor  gullible  stranger  to  believe,  or  was 
he  just  a  small-sized  edition  of  the  full-blown  crook 
he  happens  to  be  at  the  present  stage  of  develop 
ments?  Not  that  it  makes  any  difference  here,"  he 
tapped  the  big  notebook  under  his  arm,  "but  I'm  just 
curious,  a  little,  because  the  Jed  The  Red  whom  I 
happen  to  know  is  so  crooked  nowadays  that  his  own 
manager  is  afraid  to  place  a  bet  on  him  half  the  time. 
See?" 

Denny  smiled  comprehendingly.  He  shifted  his  big 
body  to  a  more  comfortable  and  far  less  awkward 
position. 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  97 

"I  see,"  he  agreed. 

Somehow,  where  it  would  have  been  an  utter  im 
possibility  to  have  spoken  lightly  to  him  the  night 
before,  he  found  it  very  easy  now  to  understand  and 
meet  half  way  the  frivolity  of  the  fat,  grinning  man 
before  him. 

"Well,  when  he  left  town  about  eight  years  ago, 
his  going  was  just  a  trifle  hasty.  He — he  took  about 
everything  there  was  in  the  cash-drawer  of  Benson's 
store  with  him — except  maybe  a  lead  slug  or  two — 
and  there  are  some  who  think  he  only  overlooked 
those." 

The  gurgle  of  sheer  delight  that  broke  from  the 
lips  of  the  man  in  brown  was  spontaneously  conta 
gious. 

"Just  about  as  your  servant  had  it  figured  out  last 
night,"  he  fairly  chirped.  Then  he  slipped  one  hand 
through  the  crook  of  Denny's  elbow.  "I  guess  I'll 
have  to  take  a  chance  on  you.  It's  too  good  to  keep 
all  to  myself."  He  led  the  way  back  to  the  empty 
truck.  "And  you  ought  to  be  safe,  too,  for  judging 
from  the  sentiments  that  were  expressed  after  you 
left  last  night,  you — er — don't  run  very  strong  with 
this  community,  either." 

Again  he  paused,  his  eyelid  cocked  in  comical  sug 
gestion.  Instead  of  narrowing  ominously,  as  they 
might  have  twelve  hours  before,  Denny's  own  eyes 
lighted  appreciatively  at  the  statement.  He  even 


98  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

waited  an  instant  while  he  pondered  with  mock  grav 
ity. 

"I  reckon,"  he  drawled  finally,  "that  I'll  have  to 
confess  that  I've  never  been  what  you  might  call  a 
general  favorite." 

The  newspaper  man's  head  lifted  a  little.  He 
flashed  a  covertly  surprised  glance  at  the  boy's  sharp 
profile.  It  was  far  from  being  the  sort  of  an  answer 
that  he  had  expected. 

"No,  you  certainly  are  not,"  he  emphasized,  and 
then  he  opened  the  flat  notebook  with  almost  loving 
care  across  his  knees. 

Young  Denny,  with  the  first  glimpse  he  caught  of 
that  very  first  page,  comprehended  in  one  illuminat 
ing  flash  the  cause  of  those  muffled  chuckles  which 
had  convulsed  that  rounded  back  when  he  turned  the 
corner  of  the  station-shed  a  moment  before;  he  even 
remembered  that  half-veiled  mirth  in  the  eyes  of  the 
man  who  had  sat  balanced  upon  the  desk  in  the  Tav 
ern  office  the  night  before  and  understood  that,  too. 
For  the  hurriedly  penciled  sketch,  which  completely 
filled  the  first  page  of  the  notebook,  needed  no  expla 
nation — not  even  that  of  the  single  line  of  writing 
beneath  it,  which  read: 

"I  always  said  he'd  make  the  best  of  'em  hustle — 
yes,  sir,  the  very  best  of  'em!" 

It  was  a  picture  of  Judge  Maynard — the  Judge 
Maynard  whom  Young  Denny  knew  best  of  all — 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  99 

unctuous  of  lip  and  furtively  calculating  of  eye.  For 
all  the  haste  of  its  creation  it  was  marvelously  per 
fect  in  detail,  and  as  he  stared  the  corners  of  the 
toy's  lips  began  to  twitch  until  his  teeth  showed  white 
beneath.  The  fat  man  grinned  with  him. 

"Get  it,  do  you  ?"  he  chuckled.    "Get  it,  eh  ?" 

And  with  the  big-shouldered  figure  leaning  eagerly 
Bearer  he  turned  through  page  after  page  to  the  end. 

"Not  bad — not  bad  at  all,"  he  frankly  admired  his 
own  handiwork  at  the  finish.  "You  see,  it  was  like 
this.  I've  been  short  on  anything  like  this  for  a  long 
time — good  Rube  stuff — and  so  when  Conway  came 
through  in  his  match  the  other  night  it  looked  like 
a  providential  opportunity — and  it  certainly  has 
panned  up  to  expectations." 

Once  more  he  turned  to  scan  the  lean  face  turned 
toward  him,  far  more  openly,  far  more  inquisitively, 
this  time.  It  perplexed  him,  bewildered  him — this 
easy  certainty  and  consciousness  of  power  which  had 
replaced  the  lost-dog  light  that  had  driven  the  smile 
from  his  own  lips  the  night  before  when  he  had  fol 
lowed  Judge  Maynard's  beckoning  finger. 

Hours  after  the  enthusiastic  circle  about  the  Tav 
ern  stove  had  dissolved  he  had  labored  to  reproduce 
that  white,  bitter,  quivering  face  at  the  door,  only  to 
find  that  the  very  vividness  of  his  memory  somehow 
baffled  the  cunning  of  his  pencil.  There  had  been  more 
than  mere  bitterness  in  those  curveless,  colorless 


ioo  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

lips;  something  more  than  doubt  of  self  behind 
the  white  hot  flare  in  the  gray  eyes.  Now,  in  the 
light  of  day,  his  eyes  searched  for  it  openly  and  failed 
to  find  even  a  ghost  of  what  it  might  have  been. 

"No,"  he  ruminated  gently,  and  he  spoke  more  to 
himself  than  the  other,  "you  don't  stand  deuce  high 
with  this  community.  You're  way  down  on  the  list." 
He  hesitated,  weighing  his  words,  suddenly  a  little 
doubtful  as  to  how  far  he  might  safely  venture.  "I 
— I  guess  you've — er — disappointed  them  too  long, 
haven't  you?" 

The  blood  surged  up  under  Young  Denny's  dark 
skin  until  it  touched  his  crisp  black  hair,  and  the  fat 
man  hastened  to  throw  a  touch  of  jocularity  into  the 
statement. 

"Yep,  you've  disappointed  'em  sorely.  But  I've 
been  monopolizing  all  the  conversation.  I  can't  con 
vince  myself  that  you've  come  down  here  merely  to 
say  me  a  touching  farewell.  Was  there — was  there 
something  you  wanted  to  see  me  about  in  particular?" 

It  was  the  very  opening  for  which  Denny  had  been 
waiting — the  opening  which  he  had  not  known  how 
to  make  himself,  for  his  plan  for  procedure  by  which 
he  was  to  accomplish  it  was  just  as  indistinct  as  his 
resolution  had  been  final.  He  nodded  silently,  un 
certain  just  how  to  begin,  and  then  he  plunged  desper 
ately  into  the  very  middle  of  it. 

"I  thought  maybe  you  could  tell  me  if  this  was  true 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  101 

or  not,"  he  said,  and  he  drew  from  his  pocket  the 
paper  which  bore  the  account  of  Jed  The  Red's  victory 
over  The  Texan.  A  hint  of  a  frown  appeared  upon 
the  forehead  of  the  man  in  brown  as  he  took  the 
folded  sheet  and  read  where  Denny's  finger  indicated 
— the  last  paragraph  of  all. 

"The  winner's  share  of  the  receipts  amounted  to 
twelve  thousand  dollars/'  was  its  succinct  burden. 

He  read  it  through  twice,  as  if  searching  for  any 
puzzling  phrase  it  might  contain. 

"I  certainly  can,"  he  admitted  at  last.  "I  wrote  it 
myself,  but  it's  no  doubt  true,  for  all  that.  Not  a  very 
big  purse,  of  course,  but  then,  you  know,  he  isn't  really 
championship  calibre.  He's  just  a  second-rate  hope 
ful,  that's  all.  It  seems  hard  to  find  a  real  one  these 
days.  But  why  the  riddle  ?"  he  finished,  as  he  handed 
back  the  paper. 

"Why,  I  thought  if  it  was  true  maybe  I'd  ask  you 
to  tell  me  if  I — how  I  could  get  a  chance  at  him." 

The  boy's  explanation  was  even  more  flounderingly 
abrupt  than  his  former  question  had  been,  but  his 
eyes  never  wavered  from  the  newspaper  man's  face. 
The  latter  laid  his  notebook  upon  the  truck  with  ex 
aggerated  care  and  rose  and  faced  him. 

"Another !"  he  lamented  in  simulated  despair.  But 
the  next  moment  all  the  bantering  light  went  from  his 
face,  while  his  eyes  flashed  in  lightning-like  appraise 
ment  over  Denny's  lean  shoulder-heavy  body,  from  his 


102  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

feet,  small  and  narrow  in  spite  of  the  clumsy  high 
boots,  to  his  clean-cut  head,  and  back  again.  There 
was  a  hint  of  businesslike  eagerness  in  that  swift  cal 
culation  of  possibilities.  The  boy  shifted  consciously 
under  the  scrutiny. 

"It  isn't  that  he  never  was  able  to  whip  me — even 
when  he  was  a  kid,"  he  tried  to  explain.  "It — it's 
because  I  don't  believe,  somehow,  that  he  ever  could." 

All  the  strained  eagerness  disappeared  from  the 
face  of  the  pudgy  man  in  brown.  He  laughed  softly, 
a  short  little  laugh  of  amusement  at  his  own  momen 
tary  folly. 

"Whew !"  he  murmured.  "I'm  getting  to  be  just 
as  bad  as  all  the  rest !" 

He  felt  in  a  pocket  for  a  card  and  scribbled  an  ad 
dress  across  its,  back.  A  trace  of  good-natured  famili 
arity — the  first  hint  of  superiority  that  had  marked 
his  manner — accompanied  his  gesture  when  he  ex 
tended  it  in  one  hand.  It  savored  of  the  harmless 
humoring  of  a  childish  vagary. 

"If  you  ever  did  chance  to  get  as  far  from  home  as 
that,  there's  a  man  at  that  address  who'd  fall  on  your 
neck  and  weep  real  tears  if  you  happened  to  have  the 
stuff,"  he  said.  "But  just  one  additional  word.  May 
be  I've  led  you  astray  a  bit.  Just  because  I  said  that 
Jed  The  Red  is  a  second-rater,  don't  think  for  a  mo 
ment  that  he  fights  like  a  schoolboy  now.  He  doesn't 
— nothing  like  that!" 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  103 

He  gazed  for  another  second  at  the  boy's  thin, 
grave  face,  so  like,  in  its  very  thinness  and  gravity,  all 
that  a  composite  of  its  Puritan  forbears  might  have 
been.  And  as  he  became  suddenly  conscious  of  that 
resemblance  he  reversed  the  card,  a  whimsical  twist 
touching  his  lips,  and  wrote  above  his  own  name,  "In 
troducing  the  Pilgrim,"  and  put  it  in  the  outstretched 
hand. 

"Any  idea  when  you  expect  to  make  a  start?"  he 
inquired  with  an  elaborate  negligence  that  brought 
the  hot  color  to  the  boy's  cheeks.  But  again,  at  the 
words,  he  caught,  too,  a  glimpse  of  the  unshaken  cer 
tainty  that  backed  their  gray  gravity. 

"To-morrow,  I  reckon.  It'll  take  me  all  of  to-day 
to  get  things  fixed  up  so  I  can  leave.  I'll  take  this 
train  in  the  morning.  And  they — they  ought  to  have 
told  you  at  the  hotel  that  it's  always  a  half-hour  late." 

Young  Denny  rose. 

"Surely — surely,"  the  chubby  man  agreed.  "Noth 
ing  like  getting  away  with  the  bell.  And — er — there's 
one  other  thing.  Of  course  if  it's  a  little  private  af 
fair,  I'll  bow  myself  gracefully  out,  but  I  do  confess 
to  a  lot  of  curiosity  concerning  that  small  souvenir." 
His  eyes  traveled  to  the  red  welt  across  the  boy's 
chin.  "May  I  Inquire  just  how  it  happened?" 

Denny  failed  to  understand  him  at  first;  then  his 
finger  lifted  and  touched  the  wound  interrogatively. 

"This?"  he  inquired. 


io4  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

The  man  in  brown  nodded. 

"Last  night,"  the  boy  explained,  "I — I  kind  of  for 
got  myself  and  walked  in  on  the  horses  in  the  dark, 
without  speaking  to  them.  I'd  forgot  to  feed  before 
I  went  to  the  village.  One  of  them's  young  yet — and 
nervous — and " 

The  other  scowled  comprehendingly. 

"And  so,  just  for  that,  they  both  went  hungry  till 
you  came  to  in  the  morning  and  found  yourself 
stretched  out  on  the  floor,  eh?" 

Again  Young  Denny  puzzled  a  moment  over  the 
words.  He  shook  his  head  negatively. 

"No-o-o,"  he  contradicted  slowly.  "No,  it  wasn't 
as  bad  as  that.  Knocked  me  across  the  floor  and  into 
the  wall  and  made  me  pretty  dizzy  and  faint  for  a 
little  while.  But  I  managed  to  feed  them.  I — I'd 
worked  them  pretty  hard  in  the  timber  last  week." 

The  man  in  brown  puckered  his  lips  sympathetic 
ally,  whistling  softly  while  he  considered  the  damage 
which  that  flying  hoof  had  done,  and  the  utter  sim 
plicity  of  the  explanation. 

"I  wonder,"  he  said  to  himself,  "I  wonder — I  won 
der!"  And  then,  almost  roughly:  "Give  me  back 
that  card !" 

Young  Denny's  eyes  widened  witH  surprise,  but  he 
complied  without  a  word.  The  man  in  brown  stood 
a  moment,  tapping  his  lips  with  the  pencil,  before  he 
wrote  hastily  under  the  scribbled  address,  cocked  his 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  105 

head  while  he  read  it  through,  and  handed  it  back 
again. 

The  belated  train  was  whistling  for  the  station 
crossing  when  he  thrust  out  his  pudgy  white  hand  in 
farewell. 

"My  name's  Morehouse,"  he  said,  "and  I've  been 
called  'Chub'  by  my  immediate  friends,  a  title  which 
is  neither  dignified  nor  reverend,  and  yet  I  answer  to 
it  with  cheerful  readiness.  I  tell  you  this  because  I 
have  a  premonition  that  we  are  to  meet  again.  And 
don't  lose  that  card!" 

Young  Denny's  fingers  closed  over  the  outstretched 
hand  with  a  grip  that  brought  the  short,  fat  man  in 
brown  up  to  his  toes.  Long  after  the  train  had  crawled 
out  of  sight  the  boy  stood  there  motionless  beside  the 
empty  truck,  reading  over  and  over  again  the  few 
scrawled  words  that  underran  the  line  of  address. 

"Some  of  them  may  have  science,"  it  read,  "and 
some  of  them  may  have  speed,  but,  after  all,  it's  the 
man  that  can  take  punishment  who  gets  the  final  de 
cision.  Call  me  up  if  this  ever  comes  to  hand." 

Which,  after  all,  was  not  so  cryptic  as  it  might 
have  been. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THAT  drearily  bleak  day  which  was  to  witness 
the  temporary  passing  of  the  last  of  the  line 
of  Boltons   from  the  town  which  had  borne 
their  name  longer  even  than  the  oldest  veteran  in  the 
circle  of  regulars  which  nightly  flanked  the  cracked 
wood-stove  in  the  Tavern  office  could  recall,  brought 
with  it  a  succession  of  thrills  not  second  even  to  those 
that  had  been  occasioned  by  the  advent  of  the  plump 
newspaper  man  from  the  metropolis,  and  all  his  prom 
ised  works. 

And  yet,  so  far  as  he  himself  was  concerned,  Young 
Denny  Bolton  was  totally  oblivious,  or  at  least  appar 
ently  so,  to  the  very  audible  hum  of  astonishment 
which  rippled  along  behind  them  when  they — he  and 
Judge  Maynard,  of  all  men — whirled  down  the  main 
street  of  the  village  that  morning  through  the  gray 
mist  already  heavy  as  fine  rain,  to  stop  with  a  great 
flourish  of  glittering  harness  buckles  and  stamping  of 
hoofs  before  the  postoffice  doors. 

It  was  the  busiest  hour  which  the  straggling  one- 
story  shops  along  the  unpaved  thoroughfare  knew,  this 
one  directly  following  the  unshuttering  of  the 
specked,  unwashed  show-windows,  known  distinctly 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  107 

as  "mail  time" — a  very  certain  instant  when  Old  Jer 
ry's  measured  passage  from  the  office  doors  to  his 
dilapidated  rig  at  the  edge  of  the  boardwalk  heralded 
the  opening  of  the  general  delivery  window  within. 

It  was  Old  Jerry's  hour — the  one  hour  of  the  day 
in  which  his  starved  appetite  for  notoriety  ever  supped 
of  nourishment — that  moment  when  the  small  knot  of 
loiterers  upon  the  sidewalk,  always,  face  for  face, 
composed  of  the  same  personnel  as  the  unvarying 
nightly  circle  about  the  Tavern  stove,  gave  way  before 
him  and  the  authority  of  the  "Gov'mint"  which  he 
personified. 

Since  that  first  morning,  years  back,  which  had 
hailed  his  initial  appearance  with  the  mail  bags  slung 
over  one  thin  shoulder,  he  had  made  the  most  of 
that  daily  entrance  upon  the  stage  of  publicity.  There 
was  always  a  haughty  aloofness  in  his  eyes  that  killed 
any  word  of  greeting  upon  the  lips  of  these  same  be 
holders  with  whom,  a  few  hours  later,  he  was  to  sit 
and  wrangle  in  bitterest  intimacy;  a  certain  brisk  im 
portance  of  step  which  was  a  palpable  rebuke  to  their 
purposeless  unemployment. 

Just  once  this  haughty  reserve  had  been  assailed. 
It  happened  that  same  first  morning  when  Old  Dave 
Shepard,  white  of  head  and  womanishly  mild  of  voice, 
alike  the  circle's  patriarch  and  most  timid  member, 
had  stepped  forward  and  laid  one  unsteady  hand  upon 
his  arm,  some  embarrassed  word  of  congratulation 


io8  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

trembling  on  his  lips.  Old  Jerry's  bearing  upon 
that  one  occasion  had  precluded  for  all  time  the 
possibility  of  its  recurrence.  He  had  stepped  back  a 
pace,  out  of  reach  of  those  detaining  fingers,  and 
fastened  the  offender  with  a  stare  of  such  baleful  re 
sentment  that  the  latter  drew  off  in  pitiful  haste  for 
self-effacement.  And  Jerry's  words  on  that  one  occa 
sion  were  still  current  history. 

"I  warn  you,  Mister  Shepard,"  he  had  shrilled, 
"that  it's  a  state's  prison  offense  to  interfere  with  a 
Gov'mint  official  in  the  performance  of  his  duty — and 
if  you've  got  any  complaints  to  make  they'll  have  to 
be  set  down  reg'lar  in  writin',  so's  I  can  give  'em  due 
consideration!" 

Dating  from  that  day  Old  Jerry's  daily  appearance 
had  taken  on,  at  least  in  the  eyes  of  the  Tavern  reg 
ulars,  a  ceremonious  importance  that  demanded  their 
personal  attendance,  and  although  it  still  lacked  a  few 
moments  of  the  hour  for  which  they  were  waiting,  a 
roll-call  would  have  found  their  number  complete 
when  the  yellow-wheeled  buckboard  of  Boltonwood's 
most  important  citizen,  with  its  strangely  assorted  pair 
of  passengers,  flashed  into  view.  Denny  Bolton 
was  totally  oblivious  to  the  stir  which  their  ap 
pearance  created,  but  if  he  was  too  engrossed  with 
other  things  to  be  aware  of  the  breathless  hush 
which  followed  it,  the  huge,  moon-faced  man  who 
occupied  the  seat  of  the  buckboard  with  him  was 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  109 

conscious  of  it  all  to  a   degree  sufficient  for  both. 

From  the  moment  when  he  had  himself  answered 
the  summons  at  the  front  door  of  his  great,  boxlike 
house  on  the  hill,  and  found  Young  Denny  standing 
there,  Judge  Maynard  had  sensed  a  sensation.  With 
unerring  judgment  he  read  it  in  the  very  carriage  of 
the  big-shouldered  boy  before  him,  who  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life  failed  to  uncover  his  head,  with  a  due 
amount  of  reverence,  in  the  presence  of  the  town's 
great  man. 

Perhaps  with  his  mind  set  upon  other  things  that 
morning  Young  Denny  forgot  it,  perhaps  there  was 
an  even  deeper  reason  for  his  remissness,  but  the 
Judge,  while  he  stood  and  listened  to  the  boy's  tersely 
short  explanation  of  his  errand,  was  himself  too  taken 
up  with  other  thoughts  to  note  the  omission.  He  was 
already  formulating  the  rounded  sentences  with  which 
he  would  introduce  the  subject  that  night  to  the  circle 
in  the  Tavern  office. 

There  was  much  of  the  dramatic  in  the  whole  sit 
uation — much  that  needed  only  proper  staging  and 
elaboration  to  make  of  it  a  tremendous  triumph,  a 
personal  triumph,  the  extent  of  which  he  began  to 
foresee  with  Denny's  opening  words.  And  the  greater 
became  his  consciousness  of  Denny  Bolton's  strange 
new  bearing,  the  clearer  he  saw  all  the  possibilities 
of  the  situation. 

To  cap  it  all,  the  one  big,  irrefutable  fact  about 


1 10  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

which  he  could  build  his  climax  was  there  all  ready 
before  him,  ripe  for  exploitation.  It  was  with  an 
actual  effort  of  the  will  that  the  Judge  held  his  brain 
sufficiently  attentive  to  the  boy's  words  to  grasp  the 
reason  for  his  early  morning  visit,  in  the  face  of  the 
fascination  which  that  great,  ragged  bruise  across 
Denny's  chin  had  for  him.  Properly  displayed,  prop 
erly  played  up,  the  possibilities  of  that  raw,  unban- 
daged  wound  were  incalculable,  and  the  Judge  started 
almost  guiltily  from  his  greedy  scrutiny  of  it  to  a 
sudden  realization  that  the  boy  before  him  had  paused 
in  his  recital  and  was  waiting  in  almost  insulting  self- 
possession  for  a  reply. 

Many  men  and  some  few  women  had  rung  boldly  at 
the  Judge's  front  door  or,  more  often,  tapped  timidly 
at  the  entrance  in  the  rear  of  the  house,  all  bent  upon 
the  same  errand.  For  it  was  a  country-wide  secret 
that  no  one  had  ever  been  turned  away  from  those 
doors  with  a  refusal.  If  any  of  those  same  visitors 
ever  awakened  to  a  realization  that  the  terms  of  their 
bargain  were  far  harder  to  bear  than  a  refusal  might 
have  been,  they  nursed  that  knowledge  in  secret. 

The  Judge  was  a  first  mortgage  financier,  and  he 
scanned  each  new  addition  to  his  already  extensive 
collection  with  all  the  elaborate  care  which  a  matcher 
of  precious  stones  might  have  exercised  in  the  assem 
bling  of  a  fabulous  priced  string  of  pearls.  It  was 
his  practice  to  scrutinize  each  transaction  from  every 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  in 

possible  angle,  in  every  degree  of  light  and  shade, 
but  in  his  eagerness  that  morning  he  forgot  to  don 
for  Denny  the  air  of  gracious  understanding  that  was 
half  paternal,  half  deprecating,  which  he  always  wore 
to  set  the  others  more  at  their  ease.  He  even  forgot 
to  clear  his  throat  judicially  when  he  asked  the  boy 
before  him  if  he  had  considered  sufficiently  the  grav 
ity  of  such  a  step  as  the  placing  in  pawn  of  the  roof 
that  sheltered  him  and  the  ground  that  gave  him  food. 
It  may  have  been  because  Young  Denny,  as  he  stood 
quietly  waiting  for  his  answer,  came  under  neither 
classification — he  was  neither  pitifully  timid  nor  more 
pitifully  bold — that  the  Judge  omitted  the  usual  pom 
pous  formula,  or  merely  that  in  his  eager  contempla 
tion  of  the  boy's  hurt  face  he  forgot  for  once  his  per 
fectly  rehearsed  part. 

No  preoccupation,  however,  marred  the  businesslike 
statement  of  his  terms,  but  even  while  he  named  the 
amount  which  he  was  willing  to  risk  upon  Young  Den 
ny's  arid,  rocky  acres,  and  the  rate  of  interest  which 
he  felt  compelled  to  demand,  his  brain  was  racing  far 
ahead  of  the  matter  in  hand.  It  was  the  Judge  him 
self  who  engineered  the  half  hour's  delay  which  re 
sulted  in  the  fullest  possible  audience  for  their  ap 
pearance  that  morning.  While  he  had  never  attended 
it  himself,  except  now  and  then  by  chance,  he  knew 
too  well  the  infallibility  of  that  little  knot  of  regulars 
who  watched  Old  Jerry's  daily  departure  to  have  any 


ii2  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

fears  that  the  first  of  that  day's  many  thrills  would  go 
unseen  or  unsung.  And  he  timed  their  arrival  to  a 
second. 

Old  Jerry  was  in  the  doorway,  ready  for  his 
straight-backed  descent  of  the  worn  steps,  when  Judge 
Maynard  pulled  his  smooth  gaited  pair  to  a  restive 
standstill  before  the  office  and  gave  the  reins  into 
Young  Denny's  keeping.  The  throng  of  old  men  upon 
the  sidewalk  was  at  the  point  of  opening  ranks  to 
allow  him  to  pass  through  to  his  tattered  buggy,  which 
stood  at  the  roadside,  a  bare  half-length  ahead  of  the 
Judge's  polished  equipage.  And  now  those  same  ranks 
broke  in  wild  disorder  and  then  closed  tighter  even 
than  before,  while  they  shifted  and  struggled  for  a 
better  view. 

They  forgot  the  ceremonious  solemnity  of  the  mo 
ment  and  the  little,  birdlike  figure  upon  the  top  step 
trying  not  to  show  too  plainly  upon  his  face  a  sense 
of  his  own  importance — they  forgot  everything  but 
the  portend  of  the  scene  which  the  Judge  was  han 
dling  in  so  masterful  a  fashion. 

The  latter's  descent  from  his  seat  to  the  ground 
was  deliberate,  even  for  him;  his  silent  nod  to  those 
wide-eyed,  loose-jawed  old  men  upon  the  sidewalk 
was  the  very  quintessence  of  secretive  dignity,  and  yet 
had  he  taken  up  his  position  there  on  the  corner  of 
the  uneven  board-walk  and  cried  aloud  his  sensation, 
like  a  bally-hoo  advertising  the  excellence  of  his  own 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  1 13 

particular  side-show,  he  could  not  have  equaled  the 
results  which  the  very  profundity  of  his  silence 
achieved. 

There  was  a  momentous  promise  in  his  gravity,  a 
hint  of  catastrophe  in  the  tilt  of  his  head.  Like  two 
receding  waves  the  tight  ranks  opened  before  him, 
clearing  a  path  for  his  heavy-footed  advance  to  the 
post-office  doors — a  lane  of  bulging  eyes  and  clicking 
tongues  such  as  Old  Jerry  in  all  his  days  had  never 
provoked.  And  the  latter  stood  there  stock  still  in  the 
middle  of  the  entrance,  too  dazed  at  first  to  grasp  the 
whole  meaning  of  the  situation,  until  he,  too,  was 
swept  aside,  without  so  much  as  a  glance  or  a  word, 
by  one  majestic  sweep  of  the  Judge's  hand. 

Old  Jerry's  sparrowlike,  thinly,  wistful  face  flamed 
red,  and  then  faded  a  ghastly  white,  but  no  one  seemed 
conscious  at  that  moment  of  the  ignominy  of  it  all. 
It  was  hours  later  that  they  recalled  it  and  realized 
that  they  had  looked  upon  history  in  the  making. 
No  one  noticed  the  old  man's  faltering  descent  of 
the  steps,  or  saw  that  he  paused  in  his  slow  way  to 
the  buggy  to  turn  back  and  stand  looking  about  him 
in  a  kind  of  bewildered  desperation.  For  the  gaze 
of  all  had  swung  from  the  Judge's  broad,  disappear 
ing  back  to  the  face  of  the  boy  who  was  sitting  in  the 
buckboard,  totally  unconscious  of  that  battery  of  eyes, 
smiling  to  himself. 

He  even  chuckled  aloud  once — Young  Denny  did 


1 14  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

— a  muffled,  reasonless  sort  of  a  chuckle,  as  if  he  did 
not  even  know  they  were  there.  It  was  almost  as 
though  he  were  playing  straight  into  the  Judge's  own 
plan,  for  the  effect  of  the  mirth  upon  the  group  on 
the  walk  was  electrical.  It  sent  a  shiver  of  anticipa 
tion  through  it  from  end  to  end.  And  then,  like  the 
eyes  of  one  man,  their  eyes  swung  back  again  from 
the  ragged  bruise  across  the  boy's  chin  to  meet  the 
Judge  as  he  reappeared. 

Yet  not  one  of  them  so  much  as  dared  to  whisper 
thq  question  that  was  quivering  upon  the  lips  of  all 
and  burning  hungrily  in  their  faded  eyes.  Once  more 
the  wide  lane  opened  magically  for  him — but  again 
Judge  Maynard's  measured  progress  was  momentar 
ily  barred.  Curiosity  may  have  prompted  it,  and  then 
again  it  may  have  been  that  he  was  betrayed  by  the 
very  fury  of  his  desperate,  eleventh  hour  effort  to 
assert  his  right  to  the  center  of  that  stage — the  right 
of  long-established  precedent — yet  even  those  two 
long  files  of  old  men  gasped  aloud  their  dismay  at  his 
temerity  when  Old  Jerry  thrust  his  way  forward  and 
planted  himself  for  a  second  time  squarely  in  the 
great  man's  path. 

Half  way  from  the  office  doors  to  the  yellow- 
wheeled  buckboard,  in  the  very  middle  of  the  walk, 
he  stood  and  stretched  out  a  tentatively  restraining 
hand,  just  as  mild-voiced,  white-haired  Dave  had  done 
years  before.  And  in  his  high,  cracked  falsetto,  that 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  115 

was  tremulously  bitter  for  all  that  he  struggled  to  lift 
it  to  a  plane  of  easy  jocularity,  he  exclaimed: 

"Now  see  here,  Jedge;  what's  the  meanin'  of  all 
this?  You  ain't  turned  kidnapper,  hev  you?" 

There  came  a  heavy  hush,  while  the  Judge  stood 
and  stared  down  at  the  thin  face  trying  to  smile  con 
fidently  up  at  him — a  hush  that  endured  while  Judge 
Maynard  swept  him  from  head  to  foot  with  one 
shriveling  glare  and  then  walked  around  him  with 
out  a  word — walked  around  him  just  as  he  might 
have  walked  around  the  hitching  post  at  the  road 
side,  or  any  other  object  that  chanced  to  bar  his 
way!  And  this  time  Old  Jerry's  face  twitched  and 
went  whiter  even  than  before. 

Nobody  laughed,  not  even  after  the  yellow- 
wheeled  buckboard  with  its  strangely  assorted  pair 
of  passengers  had  sped  from  sight  toward  the  county 
seat  and  a  legal  adjustment  of  still  another  mort 
gage  on  the  Bolton  acres.  Not  a  word  was  spoken 
until  Old  Jerry,  too,  had  clambered  silently  into  his 
own  creaking  buggy  and  crawled  slowly  off  up  the 
hill,  with  a  squealing  accompaniment  of  ungreased 
axles. 

And  even  then,  in  the  argument  which  began  with 
a  swirl  of  conjecture  and  ended,  hours  later,  in  a 
torrent  of  bitter  personalities  farthest  of  all  from 
the  first  question  under  consideration,  they  avoided 
a  mention  of  that  regrettable  incident  just  as  for  some 


1 1 6  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

time  after  its  occurrence  they  avoided  each  other's 
eyes,  as  if  they  felt  somehow  that  theirs  was,  after 
all,  the  real  guilt. 

Upon  one  point  alone  did  they  agree;  they  were 
unanimous  that  if  Young  Denny  Bolton's  bearing 
that  morning — the  angle  at  which  he  held  his  chin, 
and  the  huge  cut  that  adorned  it,  and  his  causeless 
mirth — was  not  entirely  damning,  it  was  at  least  sus 
picious  enough  to  require  more  than  a  little  explana 
tion.  But  that  verdict,  too,  was  none  other  than  the 
very  one  which  the  Judge  had  already  planned  for 
them. 


CHAPTER  IX 

OLD  JERRY  drove  his  route  that  morning  in 
a  numbed,  trancelike  fashion;  or,  rather,  he 
sat  there  upon  the  worn-out  leather  seat 
with  the  reins  looped  over  the  dash,  staring  straight 
ahead  of  him,  and  allowed  the  fat  old  mare  to 
take  her  own  pace.  It  was  she  who  made  the  cus 
tomary  stops;  he  merely  dug  absent-mindedly  beneath 
the  seat  whenever  she  fell  to  cropping  grass  at  the 
roadside,  and  searched  mechanically  for  the  proper 
packet  of  mail.  And  twice  he  was  called  back  to 
correct  mistakes  which  he  admitted  were  his  own 
with  an  humbleness  that  was  alarming  to  the  com 
plainant.  In  all  the  days  of  his  service  he  had  never 
before  failed  to  plead  extenuating  circumstances  for 
any  slip  that  might  occur — and  to  plead  with  much 
heat  and  staccato  eloquence.  But  then,  too,  in  all 
those  years  no  day  had  ever  equalled  the  bitter  awak 
ening  of  that  morning. 

As  he  reviewed  it  all,  again  and  again,  Old  Jerry 
began  to  understand  that  it  was  not  the  public  rebuff 
which  had  hurt  so  much;  for  there  was  that  one  of 
the  night  previous,  when  the  Judge  had  cut  him  off 
in  the  middle  of  his  eager  corroboration  of  Jed  The 


n8  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

Red's  history,  which  had  not  left  a  trace  of  a  sting 
twelve  hours  later.  It  was  more  than  wounded  van 
ity,  although  hurt  pride  was  still  struggling  for  a 
place  in  his  emotions  against  a  shamed,  overwhelm 
ing  realization  of  his  own  trifling  importance,  which 
could  not  hold  its  own  against  the  first  interloper, 
even  after  years  of  entrenchment.  Judge  Maynard's 
first  thrill  had  been  staged  without  a  hitch;  he  had 
paved  the  way  for  the  personal  triumph  which  he 
meant  to  achieve  that  night,  but  he  had  accomplished 
it  only  at  a  cost — the  loyalty  of  him  who  had  been, 
after  all,  his  stanchest  supporter. 

From  that  moment  Old  Jerry's  defection  from  the 
ranks  must  be  dated,  for  it  was  in  those  bitter  hours 
which  followed  the  yellow-wheeled  buckboard's 
early  morning  flight  down  the  main  street  that  the 
old  man  woke  to  the  fact  that  his  admiration  for  the 
Judge  was  made  of  anything  but  immortal  stuff. 
He  weighed  the  Judge  in  the  balance  that  morning, 
and  half  forgot  his  own  woe  in  marveling  at  the 
discrepancies  which  he  discovered. 

Self-deceit  may  or  may  not  be  easy  of  accomplish 
ment  Maybe  it  is  merely  a  matter  of  temperament 
and  circumstance,  after  all.  But  it  Is  a  certainty 
that  the  first  peep  at  one's  own  soul  is  always  the 
most  startling — the  most  illuminating,  always  hard 
est  of  all  to  bear.  And  once  stripped  of  that  one 
garment  of  grandeur,  which  he  had  conjured  out  of 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  1 19 

his  own  great  hunger  for  attention,  Old  Jerry  found 
a  ruthless,  half-savage  joy  in  tearing  aside  veil  after 
veil,  until  he  found  himself  gazing  straight  back 
into  the  eyes  of  his  own  spirit — until  he  saw  the 
pitiful  old  fraud  he  really  was,  naked  there  before 
him. 

Just  as  well  as  though  he  had  been  a  party  to  it 
he  understood  the  Judge's  crafty  exhibition  of  Young 
Denny's  maimed  face  that  morning;  he  knew  with 
out  a  trace  of  doubt  just  what  the  Judge,  in  his 
ominous  silence,  had  meant  to  insinuate,  and  what 
the  verdict  would  be  that  night  around  the  Tavern 
stove.  What  he  could  not  understand  quite  was 
why  all  of  them  were  so  easy  to  convince — so  ready 
to  believe — when  only  the  night  before  they  had 
sat  and  heard  the  Judge's  recital  of  Jed  The  Red's 
intimate  history  for  the  benefit  of  the  newspaper 
man  from  the  metropolis  which,  to  name  it  charita 
bly,  had  been  anything  but  a  literal  translation  of 
facts. 

Groping  back  for  one  single  peg  upon  which  to 
hang  the  fabric  of  their  oft-reiterated  prophesy  was 
alarmingly  profitless.  There  had  been  nothing,  not 
even  one  little  slip,  since  Old  Denny  Bolton's  pass 
ing  on  that  bad  night,  years  before.  And  from  that 
realization  he  fell  to  pondering  with  less  leadenness 
of  spirit  upon  what  the  real  facts  could  be  which 
lay  behind  Young  Denny's  sudden  transformation. 


1 20  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

For  that  also  was  too  real — too  evident — for  any 
eyes  to  overlook. 

It  was  not  until  long  after  the  hour  which  wit 
nessed  the  return  flight  of  the  yellow-wheeled  buck- 
board  through  the  village  street,  leaving  behind  an 
even  busier  hum  of  conjecture  than  before,  that  he 
awoke  to  a  realization  that  his  opportunity  for  a 
solution  of  the  riddle  was  at  least  better  than  that  of 
the  wrangling  group  that  had  turned  traitor  before 
the  post-office  steps. 

Long  before  he  reached  the  top  of  the  grade 
that  ran  up  to  the  bleak  house  alone  on  the  crest, 
he  was  leaning  out  of  his  seat,  trying  to  penetrate 
the  double  gloom  of  rain  and  twilight;  but  not  until 
he  had  reined  in  his  horse  was  he  positive  that  there 
was  no  shadowy  figure  standing  there  waiting  for 
his  arrival. 

He  could  not  quite  understand  the  sensation  which 
the  boy's  absence  waked  in  him  at  that  instant.  Days 
afterward  he  knew  it  had  been  lonesomeness — a 
rather  bewildering  loneliness — for  no  matter  what 
his  reception  chanced  to  be  along  the  way,  Young 
Denny's  greeting  had  been  infallibly  regular. 

And  another  emotion  far  less  difficult  to  under 
stand  began  to  stir  within  him  as  he  sat  motionless 
for  a  time  scanning  the  shapeless  bulk  of  the  place, 
entirely  dark  save  for  a  single  light  in  the  rear  room. 
For  the  first  time  he  saw  how  utterly  apart  from 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  1 2 1 

th«  rest  of  the  town  those  unpainted  old  farm  build 
ings  were — how  utterly  isolated.  The  twinkling 
lights  of  the  village  were  mere  pin-points  in  the 
distance.  Each  thick  shadow  beneath  the  eaves  of 
the  house  was  blacker  than  he  had  ever  noticed  be 
fore.  Even  the  soft  swish  of  the  rain  as  it  seeped 
from  the  sodden  shingles,  even  the  very  familiar 
complaint  of  loose  nails  lifted  by  the  wind  under  the 
clapboards,  set  his  heart  pumping  faster.  All  in 
an  instant  his  sensation-hungry  old  brain  seized  upon 
each  detail  that  was  as  old  as  he  himself  and  man 
ufactured,  right  there  on  the  spot,  a  sinister  some 
thing — a  something  of  unaccountable  dread,  which 
sent  a  delightful  shiver  up  and  down  his  thin,  bony, 
old  back. 

For  a  while  he  waited  and  debated  with  himself, 
not  at  all  certain  now  that  he  was  as  keen  for  a 
solution  of  the  riddle  of  that  cut  which  had  adorned 
Young  Denny's  chin  as  he  had  been.  And  yet,  even 
while  he  hesitated,  feeding  his  imagination  upon  the 
choicest  of  premonitory  tit-bits,  he  knew  he  meant 
to  go  ahead.  He  was  magnifying  the  unfathomed 
peril  that  existed  in  his  erratic,  hair-trigger  old  brain 
alone  merely  for  the  sake  of  the  complacent  pride 
which  resulted  therefrom — pride  in  the  contempla 
tion  of  his  own  intrepid  dare-deviltry. 

He  could  scarcely  have  put  into  words  just  what 
reception  he  had  imagined  was  awaiting  him;  but, 


122  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

whatever  it  might  have  been,  Young  Denny's  greeting 
was  full  as  startling.  A  worn,  dusty,  shapeless  leather 
bag  stood  agape  upon  the  table  before  the  window, 
and  Denny  Bolton  paused  over  the  half-folded  gar 
ment  in  his  hands  to  wheel  sharply  toward  the  new 
comer  as  the  door  creaked  open. 

For  one  uncomfortable  moment  the  old  adventurer 
waited  in  vain  for  any  light  of  welcome,  or  even 
recognition,  to  flash  up  in  the  boy's  steady  scrutiny. 
Then  the  vaguest  of  smiles  began  to  twitch  at  the 
corners  of  Denny's  lips.  He  laid  the  coat  back  upon 
the  table  and  stepped  forward  a  pace. 

"Hello! — Here  at  last,  are  you?"  he  saluted. 
"Aren't  you  pretty  late  tonight?" 

Old  Jerry  swallowed  hard  at  the  cheery  ease  of 
the  words,  but  his  fluttery  heart  began  to  pump  even 
faster  than  when  he  had  sat  outside  in  the  buggy  de 
bating  the  advisability  of  his  further  advance.  That 
warning  premonition  had  not  been  a  footless  thing, 
after  all,  for  this  self-certain,  vaguely  amused  person 
who  stood  steadily  contemplating  him  was  not  the 
Denny  Bolton  he  had  known  twenty-four  hours  before 
— not  from  any  angle  or  viewpoint. 

Behind  the  simulated  cheer  of  his  greeting  there 
was  something  else  which  Old  Jerry  found  disturb 
ingly  new  and  hard  to  place.  In  his  perplexity  the 
wordless  accusation  that  morning  had  been  correct  at 
that.  And  Young  Denny  was  smiling  widely  at  him 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  1 23 

now — smiling  openly.  The  old  man  shuffled  his  feet 
and  shifted  his  gaze  from  the  open  wound  upon  the 
boy's  face  as  though  he  feared  his  suspicion  might 
be  read  in  his  eyes.  Then  he  answered  Denny's  ques 
tion. 

"I — I  cal'late  I  be  late — maybe  a  little,"  he  ad 
mitted. 

Denny  nodded  briskly. 

"More  than  a  little,"  he  corrected.  "I  expected 
you  to  be  along  even  earlier  today  1  An  hour  or  two, 
at  least." 

Even  while  he  was  speaking  Young  Denny  turned 
back  to  the  packing  of  the  big  bag  on  the  table.  Old 
Jerry  stood  there,  still  shifting  from  one  foot  to 
the  other,  considering  in  growing  wonder  that  silent 
preparation,  and  waiting  patiently  for  a  further  ex 
planation  of  what  it  meant.  At  last,  when  he  could 
no  longer  endure  the  suspense,  he  broke  that  silence 
himself. 

"Packin'  up  for  a  little  trip,  be  you?"  he  ventured 
mildly. 

There  was  no  progress  made  or  satisfaction  gained 
from  Young  Denny's  short  nod.  Again  the  little  man 
bore  it  as  long  as  he  was  able. 

"Figurin'  on  bein'  gone  quite  a  spell?"  he  ventured 
again. 

And  again  the  big-shouldered  figure  nodded  a  silent 
affirmative.  Old  Jerry  drew  himself  up  with  an  air 


1 24  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

of  injured  dignity  at  that  inhospitable  slight;  he  even 
took  one  step  backward  toward  the  door;  but  that 
one  step,  in  the  face  of  his  consuming  curiosity,  was 
as  far  as  he  could  force  himself  to  go. 

"I — I  kinda  thought  you  might  be  leavin'.  Why, 
I — kinda  suspicioned  it  this  morning  when  I  seen 
you  ridin'  townward  with  the  Jedge." 

The  boy  stuffed  the  last  article  into  the  bulging 
bag  and  turned.  Old  Jerry  almost  believed  that  the 
lack  of  comprehension  in  Young  Denny's  eyes  was 
real  until  he  caught  again  that  hint  of  amusement 
behind  it.  But  when  Denny  started  toward  him  sud 
denly,  without  so  much  as  a  word,  the  old  man  re 
treated  just  as  suddenly,  almost  apprehensively,  be 
fore  him. 

"You  say  you  was  expectin'  me,"  he  faltered  un 
steadily,  "but — but  if  there  wa'n't  anything  special 
you  wanted  to  see  me  about,  I — I  reckon  I  better 
be  joggin'  along.  I  just  kinda  dropped  in,  late's  it 
was,  to  tell  you  there  wa'n't  no  mail,  and  to  say — 
to  tell  you " 

He  stopped  abruptly.  He  didn't  like  the  looks  of 
Denny  Bolton's  eyes.  They  were  different  than  he 
had  ever  seen  them  before.  If  their  inscrutability 
was  not  actually  terrifying,  Old  Jerry's  active  imagina 
tion  at  that  moment  made  it  so.  And  never  before 
had  he  noted  how  huge  the  boy's  body  was  in  com 
parison  with  his  own  weazened  frame.  He  groped 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  125 

stealthily  behind  him  and  found  the  door  catch.    The 
cool  touch  of  the  metal  helped  him  a  little. 

"I — I  may  be  a  trifle  late — jest  a  trifle,"  h'e  hurried 
on,  "but  I  been  hustlin'  to  git  here — that  is,  ever  sense 
about  five  o'clock,  or  thereabouts.  There's  been  some 
thing  I  been  wantin'  to  tell  you.  I — I  jest  wanted  to 
say  that  I  hoped  it  wa'n't  anything  I  might  have  said 
or — or  kinda  hinted  at,  maybe,  nights  down  to  the 
Tavern,  that's  druv  you  out.  That's  a  mighty  mean, 
gossipy  crowd  down  there,  anyway,  always  kinda 
leadin'  a  man  along  till  he  gits  to  oversteppin'  hisself 
a  little." 

It  was  the  first  declaration  of  his  own  shortcomings 
that  he  had  ever  voiced,  an  humble  confession  that 
was  more  than  half  apology  born  of  that  afternoon's 
travail  of  spirit;  but  somehow  it  rang  hopelessly  in 
adequate  in  his  own  ears  at  that  minute.  And  yet 
Young  Denny's  head  came  swiftly  forward  at  the 
words;  his  eyes  narrowed  and  he  frowned  as  though 
he  were  trying  to  believe  he  had  heard  correctly. 
Then  he  laughed — laughed  softly — and  Old  Jerry 
knew  what  that  laugh  meant.  The  boy  didn't  believe 
even  when  he  had  heard;  and  his  slow-drawled,  half- 
satirical  question  more  than  confirmed  that  suspicion. 

"Wasn't  at  all  curious,  then,  about  this?"  he  in 
quired,  with  a  whimsical  twist  to  the  words. 

He  touched  his  chin  with  the  tips  of  his  fingers. 
Old  Jerry's  treacherous  lips  flew  open  in  his  eagerness, 


126  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

and  then  closed  barely  in  time  upon  the  admission 
that  had  almost  betrayed  him. 

He  was  sorry  now,  too,  that  he  had  even  lingered 
to  make  his  apology.  That  disturbing  glint  was  flar 
ing  brighter  than  ever  in  Young  Denny's  eyes.  Merely 
because  he  was  afraid  to  turn  his  back  to  pass  out, 
Old  Jerry  stood  and  watched  with  beadily  attentive 
eyes  while  the  boy  crossed  and  took  a  lantern  from 
its  peg  on  the  wall  behind  the  stove  and  turned  up 
the  wick  and  lighted  it.  That  unexplained  prepara 
tion  was  as  fascinating  to  watch  as  its  purport  was 
veiled. 

"You  must  be  just  a  little  curious  about  it — just 
a  little  bit?"  Denny  insisted  gravely.  "I  thought 
you'd  be — and  all  the  others,  too.  That's  why  I  was 
waiting  for  you — that  and  something  in  particular 
that  I  did  want  to  ask  you,  after  I'd  made  you  under 
stand." 

If  the  first  part  of  his  statement  was  still  tinged 
with  mirth,  the  second  could  not  possibly  have  been 
any  more  direct  or  earnest.  Without  further  ex 
planation,  one  hand  grasping  his  visitor's  thin  shoul 
der,  he  urged  him  outside  and  across  the  yard  in  the 
direction  of  the  black  bulk  of  the  barn.  The  rain 
was  still  coming  down  steadily,  but  neither  of  them 
noticed  it  at  that  moment.  Old  Jerry  would  have 
balked  at  the  yawning  barn  door  but  for  that  same 
hand  which  was  directing  him  and  urging  him  on. 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  127 

His  apprehension  had  now  turned  to  actual  fright 
which  bordered  close  on  panic,  and  he  heard  the  boy's 
voice  as  though  it  came  from  a  great  distance. 

" two  or  three  things  I'd  like  to  have  you 

understand  and  get  straight,"  Denny  was  repeating 
slowly,  "so  that — so  that  if  I  asked  you,  you  could 
see  that — someone  else  got  them  straight,  too." 

Old  Jerry  was  in  no  mental  condition  to  realize 
that  that  last  statement  was  untinged  by  any  lurking 
sarcasm.  He  was  able  to  think  of  but  one 
thing. 

The  hand  upon  his  shoulder  had  loosened  its  grip. 
Slowly  the  little  man  turned — turned  with  infinite 
caution,  and  what  he  considered  was  a  very  capable 
attitude  of  self-defense.  And  for  a  moment  he  re 
fused  to  believe  his  own  eyes — refused  to  believe  that, 
in  place  of  the  threat  of  sudden  death  which  he  had 
expected,  Young  Denny  was  merely  standing  there 
before  him,  pointing  with  his  free  hand  at  a  dark, 
almost  damp  stain  upon  the  dusty  woodwork  behind 
the  stalls.  It  flashed  through  his  brain  then  that 
Denny  Bolton  had  not  merely  gone  the  way  of  the 
other  Boltons — it  was  not  the  jug  alone  that  had  stood 
in  the  kitchen  corner,  but  something  far  worse  than 
that. 

"I  got  to  humor  him,"  he  told  himself,  although  he 
was  shivering  uncontrollably.  "I  got  to  keep  a  grip 
on  myself  and  kinda  humor  him."  And  aloud,  in  a 


128  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

voice  that  was  little  more  than  a  whisper,  he  mur 
mured  : 

"What— what  is  it?" 

"Couldn't  you  guess — if  you  had  to?" 

Denny  made  the  suggestion  with  appalling  calm. 
Old  Jerry  clenched  his  teeth  to  still  their  chat 
tering. 

"Maybe  I  could — maybe  I  could;"  and  his  voice 
was  a  little  stronger.  "I — I'd  say  it  was  blood,  I 
reckon,  if  anyone  asked  me." 

Without  a  word  the  boy  set  the  lantern  down  and 
walked  across  the  barn  to  lay  one  hand  upon  the 
flank  of  the  nervous  animal  in  the  nearest  stall. 

"That's  what  it  is,"  he  stated  slowly;  and  again  he 
touched  the  wound  on  his  chin  gingerly.  "From  this," 
he  went  on.  "I  came  in  last  night  to  feed — and  I — I 
forgot  to  speak  to  Tom  here,  and  it  was  dark.  He 
— he  laced  out  and  caught  me — and  that's  where  I 
landed,  there  against  the  wall." 

The  servant  of  the  "Gov'mint"  nodded  his  com 
prehension — he  nodded  it  volubly,  with  deep  bows 
that  would  have  done  credit  to  a  dancing  master,  lest 
his  comprehensions  seem  in  the  least  bit  veiled  with 
doubt.  He  even  clicked  his  tongue  sympathetically, 
just  as  the  plump  newspaper  man  had  done. 

"Quite  a  tap — quite  a  tap !"  he  said  as  soothingly 
as  his  uncertain  tongue  would  permit;  but  he  took  care 
to  keep  a  safe  distance  between  himself  and  his  guide 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  1 29 

when  Denny  stooped  and  lifted  the  lantern  and  led 
the  way  outside. 

Now  that  he  was  free  from  that  detaining  hand 
upon  his  shoulder,  he  contemplated  the  advisability 
of  a  sudden  dash  for  the  buggy  and  flight  behind 
the  fat  white  mare.  Nothing  but  the  weakened  con 
dition  of  his  own  knees  and  a  lack  of  confidence  in 
her  ability  to  carry  him  clear  kept  him  from  acting 
instantly  upon  that  impulse.  And  then  the  summon 
ing  voice  of  the  great  blurred  figure  which  had  been 
zigzagging  across  the  grass  before  him  checked  him 
at  the  very  moment  of  decision. 

Young  Denny  had  stopped  beside  a  sapling  that 
stood  in  a  direct  line  with  the  kitchen  window,  and 
was  pointing  down  at  a  heap  of  broken  crockery  that 
lay  at  its  foot. 

"And  if  anyone  was  to  ask  you,"  he  was  deliberately 
Inquiring,  "what  do  you  suppose  you  would  say 
that  had  been?" 

Old  Jerry  knew!  He  knew  without  one  chance 
for  doubt;  but  never  before  had  the  truth  seemed 
more  overwhelmingly  dreadful  or  surcharged  with 
peril.  A  dozen  diplomatic  evasions  flashed  through 
his  mind,  and  were  all  condemned  as  inadequate  for 
that  crisis.  He  knew  that  candor  was  his  safest 
course. 

"Why,  I — I'd  say  it  looked  mighty  like  a — a 
broken  jug,"  he  quavered,  with  elaborate  interest. 


1 30  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

"Jest  a  common,  ordinary  jug  that's  kinda  got  broke, 
somehow.  Yes,  sir-e-e,  all  broke  up,  as  you  might 
say!" 

His  shrill  cackle  of  a  voice  caught  in  his  throat, 
and  grew  husky,  and  then  broke  entirely.  Even 
Young  Denny,  absorbed  as  he  was  in  his  methodical 
exhibition  of  all  the  evidence,  became  suddenly  aware 
that  the  little  figure  beside  him  was  swallowing  hard 
— swallowing  with  great,  noisy  gulps,  and  he  lifted 
the  lantern  until  the  yellow  light  fell  full  upon  the 
twitching  face  below  him,  illuminating  every  feature. 
And  he  stared  hard  at  all  that  the  light  revealed,  for 
Old  Jerry's  face  was  very  white. 

"Jest  a  little,  no-account  jug  that's  got  busted," 
the  shrill,  bodiless  voice  went  chattering  on,  while  its 
owner  recoiled  from  the  light.  "Busted  all  to  pieces 
from  hittin'  into  a  tree!"  And  then,  reassuringly,  on 
a  desperate  impulse :  "But  don't  you  go  to  worryin' 
over  it — don't  you  worry  one  mite !  I'm  goin'  to  fix 
it  for  you.  Old  Jerry's  a-goin'  to  fix  it  for  you  in  the 
morning,  so's  it'll  be  just  as  good  as  new!  You  run 
right  along  in  now.  It's  kinda  wet  out  here — and — 
and  I  got  to  be  gittin'  along  toward  home." 

Absolute  silence  followed  the  promise.  Young 
Denny  only  lowered  the  lantern — and  then  lifted  it 
and  stared,  and  lowered  it  once  more. 

""Fix  it!"  he  echoed,  his  voice  heavy  with  wonder. 
"Fix  it?" 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  131 

Then  he  noted,  too,  the  chattering  teeth  and 
meager,  trembling  body,  and  he  thought  he  under 
stood. 

"You'd  better  come  along  in,"  he  ordered  peremp 
torily.  "You  come  along  inside.  I'll  rake  up  the  fire 
and  you  can  warm  up  a  bit.  I — I  didn't  think,  keep 
ing  you  out  here  in  the  rain.  Why,  you'll  feel  better 
after  you've  had  a  little  rest.  You  ought  not  to  be 
out  all  day  in  weather  like  this,  anyway.  You're 
too — too " 

He  was  going  to  say  too  old,  but  a  quick  thought 
saved  him.  Old  Jerry  did  not  want  to  accompany 
him;  he  would  have  done  almost  anything  else  with 
a  light  heart;  but  that  big  hand  had  fallen  again  upon 
his  shoulder,  and  there  was  no  choice  left  him. 

Young  Denny  clicked  the  door  shut  before  them 
and  pulled  a  chair  up  before  the  stove  with  businesslike 
haste.  After  he  had  stuffed  the  fire-box  full  of  fresh 
fuel  and  the  flame  was  roaring  up  the  pipe,  he  turned 
once  more  and  stood,  hands  resting  on  his  hips,  staring 
down  at  the  small  figure  slumped  deep  in  its  seat. 

"I  didn't  understand,"  he  apologized  again,  his 
voice  very  sober.  "I — I  ought  to  have  remembered 
that  maybe  you'd  be  tired  out  and  wet,  too.  But  I 
didn't — I  was  just  thinking  of  how  I  could  best 
show  you — these  things — so's  you'd  understand 
them.  You're  feeling  better  now?" 

Furtively,  from  the  corners  of  his  eyes,  Old  Jerry 


132  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

had  been  watching  every  move  while  the  boy  built  up 
the  fire.  And  now,  while  Denny  stood  over  him 
talking  so  gravely,  his  head  came  slowly  around  until 
his  eyes  were  full  upon  that  face;  until  he  was  able 
to  see  clearly,  there  in  the  better  light  of  that  room, 
all  the  solicitude  that  had  softened  the  hard  lines 
of  the  lean  jaw.  It  was  hard  to  believe,  after  all  that 
he  had  passed  through,  and  yet  he  knew  that  it  could 
not  be  possible — he  knew  that  that  voice  could  not 
belong  to  any  man  who  had  been  nursing  a  maniacal 
vengeance  behind  a  cunningly  calm  exterior. 

There  was  no  light  of  madness  in  those  eyes  which 
were  studying  him  so  steadily — studying  him  with  un 
concealed  anxiety.  Old  Jerry  could  not  have  told 
how  it  had  come  about;  but  there  in  the  light,  with 
four  good  solid  walls  about  him,  he  realized  that  a 
miracle  had  taken  place.  Little  by  little  his  slack 
body  began  to  stiffen;  little  by  little  he  raised  himself. 
Once  he  sighed,  a  sigh  of  deeper  thankfulness  than 
Young  Denny  could  ever  comprehend,  for  Young 
Denny  did  not  know  the  awfulness  of  the  peril 
through  which  he  had  just  passed. 

"Godfrey"  he  thought,  and  the  exclamation  was 
so  poignantly  real  within  him  that  it  took  audible 
form  without  his  knowledge.  ".Godfrey  'Lisha,  but 
that  was  a  close  call !  That's  about  as  narrer  a  squeak 
as  I'll  ever  hev,  I  reckon." 

And  he  wanted  to  laugh.     An  almost  hysterical 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  133 

fit  of  laughter  struggled  for  utterance.  Only  because 
the  situation  was  too  precious  to  squander,  only  be 
cause  he  would  have  sacrificed  both  arms  before 
confessing  the  terror  which  had  been  shaking  him 
by  the  throat,  was  he  able  to  stifle  it.  Instead,  he 
removed  his  drenched  and  battered  hat  and  passed 
one  fluttering  hand  across  his  forehead,  with  just  the 
shade  of  unsteadiness  for  which  the  affair  called. 

"Yes,  I'm  a-feelin'  better  now,"  he  sighed.  "God 
frey,  yes,  I'm  a  sight  better  already !  Must  'a'  been 
just  a  little  touch  of  faintness,  maybe.  I'm  kinda 
subject  to  them  spells  when  I've  been  overworked. 
And  I  hev  been  a  little  mite  druv  up  today — druv  to 
the  limit,  if  the  truth's  told.  Things  ain't  been  goin' 
as  smooth's  they  might.  Why — why,  they  ain't  no- 
bbdy'd  believe  what's  been  crowded  into  this  day, 
even  if  I  was  to  tell  'em!" 

He  filled  his  lungs  again  and  shoved  both  feet 
closer  to  the  oven  door. 

"But  that  fire  feels  real  nice,"  he  finished;  "real 
nice  and  comfortin',  somehow.  And  maybe  I  could 
stop  just  a  minute."  The  old  hungry  light  of  curi 
osity  was  kindling  again,  brighter  than  ever  before, 
in  the  beady  little  eyes.  "As  you  was  remarking 
back  a  stretch,  you'd  been  a-waitin'  for  me  to  come 
along.  Was  they — was  they  something  you  wanted 
to  see  me  about?" 


CHAPTER  X 

THE   perplexed    frown    still    furrowed   Young 
Denny's  forehead.     He  felt  that  the  fire  had 
wrought  a  most  remarkably  swift  cure  of  all 
that  he  had  feared,  but  the  anxiety  faded  from  his 
eyes.    White  head  perked  forward,  balanced  a  little 
on  one  side,  birdlike,  Old  Jerry  was  waiting  for  him 
to  pick  up  the  thread  which  had  been  broken  so  long. 
And  now  it  was  the  big-shouldered  boy  who  faltered 
in  his  words,  uncertain  just  how  to  begin. 

"I — I  don't  know  just  how  to  ask  you,"  he  started 
heavily.  "I'm — I  am  going  away.  I'm  figuring  on 
being  gone  quite  a  while,  I  think.  First,  just  after 
I  had  decided  to  go,  some  time  last  night,  I  made  up 
my  mind  to  ask  you  to  take  care  of  the  stock  till  I 
came  back.  I  thought  maybe  it  wouldn't  be  too  hard 
for  you — with  you  coming  by  at  night,  anyhow. 
There's  just  the  one  cow  and  the  team,  and  the  hens 
to  feed.  And  then  I — I  got  to  thinkin'  that  maybe, 
too,  you'd  be  able  to  do  something  else  for  me,  if 
I  sort  of  explained  how  things  were.  There — there 
wasn't  anyone  else  I  could  think  of  who'd  be  likely 
to  want  to  do  me  a  favor." 

He  paused  and  licked  his  lips.    And  Old  Jerry,  too, 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  135 

furtively  touched  his  with  the  tip  of  his  tongue.  He 
was  waiting  breathlessly,  but  he  managed  to  nod  his 
head  a  little,  encouragingly,  as  he  leaned  closer. 

"And  that  was  what  I  was  really  waiting  for," 
the  slow  voice  went  on  ponderously.  "I  saw  this 
morning — anybody  could  have  seen — what  the  Judge 
meant  them  all  to  believe  along  the  street  when  we 
drove  through.  Somehow  things  have  changed  in  the 
last  twelve  hours.  I  sort  of  look  at  some  things 
differently  than  I  did,  and  so  it  was  funny,  just  funny 
to  watch  him,  and  I'm  not  so  blind  that  I  don't  know 
what  his  story  will  be  tonight  down  at  the  Tavern. 
Not  that  I  care  what  they  say,  either.  But  there  is 
some  one  who  couldn't  help  believin'  it — couldn't  be 
lieve  anything  else — after  what  happened  last  night." 
He  stopped,  groping  for  words  to  finish.  "And  so 
I — I  waited  for  you  to  come,"  he  went  on  lamely.  UI 
took  you  outside  and  showed  you  how  it  really  hap 
pened,  so  that — so  that  you  could  tell  her — the 
truth." 

He  nodded  over  his  shoulder — nodded  once  out 
across  the  valley  in  the  direction  of  John  Anderson's 
small  drab  cottage  huddled  in  the  shadow  under  the 
hill.  And  now,  once  he  had  fairly  begun,  all  the 
diffidence,  all  the  self-consciousness  went  from  his 
voice.  It  was  only  big  and  low  and  ponderous,  as 
always,  as  he  went  back  and  told  the  old  man,  who 
sat  drinking  it  in,  every  detail  of  that  night  before, 


136  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

when  he  had  stooped  and  risen  and  sent  the  stone  jug 
crashing  through  the  window — when  he  had  turned, 
with  blood  dripping  from  his  chin,  to  find  Dryad 
Anderson  there  in  the  doorway,  eyes  wide  with  horror 
and  loathing.  Not  until  he  had  reached  that 
point  did  Old  Jerry  move  or  hint  at  an  inter 
ruption. 

"But  why  in  time  didn't  you  tell  her  yourself?"  he 
asked  then.  "Why  didn't  you  explain  that  old  Tom 
hit  you  a  clip  out  there  in  the  dark?" 

Young  Denny's  face  burned. 

"I — I  tried  to,"  he  explained  simply.  "I — I 
started  toward  her,  meaning  to  explain,  but  I  tripped, 
there  on  the  threshold,  and  went  down  on  my  knees. 
I  must  have  been  a  little  sick — a  little  giddy.  And 
when  I  got  up  again  she — she  was  gone." 

Old  Jerry  nodded  his  head  judicially.  He  sucked 
in  his  lips  from  sheer  delight  in  the  thrill  of  it  all, 
and  nodded  his  head  in  profound  solemnity. 

"Jest  like  a  woman — jest  like  a  woman,  a-con- 
demnin'  of  a  man  without  a  bit  of  mercy!  Jest  like 
'em !  I  ain't  never  been  enticed  yet  into  givin'  up 

my  freedom;  but  many's  the  time  I've  said — says 
I " 

The  boy's  set  face  checked  him;  made  him  re 
member.  This  was  no  mimic  thing.  It  was  real; 
too  real  to  need  play-acting.  And  with  that  thought 
came  recollection.  All  in  a  flash  it  dawned  on  him 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  137 

that  this  was  no  man-created  situation;  it  must  have 
something  greater  than  that  behind  it. 

That  morning  had  seen  his  passing  from  the  circle 
to  which  he  had  belonged  as  long  as  the  circle  had 
existed.  All  through  that  dreary  day  he  had  known 
that  he  could  never  go  back  to  it.  Just  why  he  could 
not  say,  but  he  felt  that  that  decision  was  irrevocable. 
And  for  that  whole  day  he  had  been  alone — more 
utterly,  absolutely  alone  than  he  had  ever  been  in  his 
whole  life — yet  here  was  a  place  awaiting  him,  need 
ing  him.  For  some  reason  it  was  not  quite  so  hard 
to  look  straight  back  into  the  eyes  of  that  soul  which 
he  had  discovered  that  day;  it  wasn't  so  hard,  even 
though  he  knew  it  now  for  the  pitiful  old  fraud  it 
really  was. 

His  thin,  leathery  face  was  working  spasmodically. 
And  it  was  alight — aglow  with  a  light  that  came 
entirely  from  within. 

"Could  you  maybe  explain,"  he  quavered  hungrily; 
"could  you  kinda  tell  me — just  why  it  is — you're 
a-askin'  me?  It — it  ain't  jest  because  you  hev  to, 
entirely;  now,  is  it?  It  ain't  because  there  ain't  nothin' 
else  left  you  to  do?" 

Denny  Bolton  sensed  immediately  more  than  half 
of  what  was  behind  the  question.  He  shook  his 
head. 

"No,"  he  answered  steadily.  "No,  because  I'm 
going  to  try  to  tell  her  again,  myself,  tonight.  It's 


i38  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

only  partly  because  maybe  I — I  won't  be  able  to  see 
her  before  I  go — and  part  because  she — she'd  believe 
you,  somehow,  I  think,  when  she  wouldn't  believe 
any  of  the  rest." 

The  white-haired  old  man  sighed.  His  stiffened 
body  slackened  as  he  shifted  his  feet  against  the 
stove. 

"Why — why,  I  kinda  hoped  it  was  something  like 
that,"  he  murmured;  and  he  was  talking  more  to 
himself  than  to  Denny.  "I  kinda  hoped  it  was — 
but  I  never  had  no  reason  to  believe  it." 

His  voice  lifted  until  it  was  its  shriller,  more  natural 
falsetto. 

"I  wouldn't  'a'  believed  myself  today,  at  twelve 
o'clock  noon,"  he  stated  flatly.  "No,  sir-e-el  After 
takin'  stock  of  myself,  as  you  might  say,  the  way  I 
done  this  morning,  I  wouldn't  'a'  believed  myself  on 
oath!" 

His  feet  dropped  noisily  to  the  floor,  and  he  sat 
bolt  upright  again. 

"But  she's  a-goin'  to  believe  me!  Godfrey,  yes, 
she'll  believe  me  when  I  git  through  tellin'  herl" 

His  pale  eyes  clung  to  the  boy's  face,  tinged  with 
astonishment  before  so  much  vehemence. 

"And  ain't  it  kinda  struck  you — ain't  it  sorta  come 
to  you  that  she  wa'n't  quite  fair,  either,  any  more 
than  the  rest  of  us,  a-thinkin' — a-thinkin'  what  she 
did,  without  any  real  proof?" 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  139 

Young  Denny  did  not  have  time  to  reply. 

"No,  I  reckon  it  ain't,"  Old  Jerry  rushed  on. 
"And  I  don't  know's  I've  got  much  right  criticizing 
either.  Not  very  much!  I've  been  a  tidy  hand  at 
jedgin'  other  folks'  matters  until  jest  lately.  Some 
way  I  ain't  quite  so  handy  at  it  as  I  was.  And  I  kinda 
expect  she's  goin'  to  be  sorry  she  even  thought  it, 
soon  enough,  without  my  tryin'  to  make  her  any  more 
so.  She's  goin'  to  be  mighty  uncomfortable  sorry, 
if  she's  anything  like  me  1" 

He  rose  and  shuffled  across  to  the  door,  and 
stopped  there.  Denny  could  not  understand  the  new 
thrill  there  was  in  his  cracked  voice,  nor  the  light 
in  those  pale  eyes.  But  he  knew  that  the  old  man 
before  him  had  been  making  something  close  akin 
to  an  eleventh-hour  confession;  making  it  out  of  a 
profound  thankfulness  for  the  opportunity.  With 
the  same  gesture  with  which  he  bade  the  old  man 
wait,  his  big  hand  went  inside  his  shirt,  and  came 
out  again.  And  he  reached  out  and  pressed  some 
thing  into  Old  Jerry's  knotty  fingers. 

"I — I  was  sure  you'd  do  it,"  he  told  him.  "I 
knew  you  would.  And  I  want  you  to  take  this,  too, 
and  keep  it.  I  don't  want  to  go  away  like  this,  but 
I  have  to.  If  I  didn't  start  right  now  I — I  might 
not  go  at  all.  I  hate  to  leave  her  alone — in  this  town. 
That's  half  of  what  the  Judge  let  me  have  today  on 
this  place.  It's  not  much,  but  it's  something  if  she 


140  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

should  need  anything  while  I'm  gone.    I  thought  you 
might — see  that  she  was  all  right — till  I  got  back?" 

The  servant  of  the  "Gov'mint"  stood  and  stared 
down  at  the  limp  little  roll  of  bills  in  his  hand;  he 
stared  until  something  caught  in  his  throat  and  made 
him  gulp  again  noisily.  But  his  face  was  shamelessly 
defiant  of  the  mist  that  smarted  under  his  eyelids 
when  he  looked  up  again. 

"Take  care  of  her?"  he  whispered.  "Me  take 
care  of  her  for  you?  Why — why,  Godfrey — why, 
man " 

He  dashed  one  hand  across  his  eyes. 

"I'm  a  old  gossipy  fool,"  he  exclaimed.  "Nothin* 
but  a  old  gossipy  fool ;  but  I  reckon  you  don't  hev  to 
count  them  bills  over  before  you  leave  'em  with  me. 
Not  unless  you  want  to.  I've  been  just  an  ordinary, 
common  waggle-tongue.  That's  what  I  really  come 
for  in  such  a  hurry  tonight,  once  I'd  thought  of  it. 
Jest  to  see  if  I  couldn't  nose  around  into  business 
that  wa'n't  no  concern  of  mine.  But  I'm  gittin'  over 
that — I'm  gittin'  over  that  fast!  Learning  a  little 
dignity  of  bearin',  too,  as  you  might  say.  And  I 
don't  deny  I  ain't  a  little  curious  yet — more'n  a  little 
curious.  But  I  want  to  tell  you  this:  There's  some 
folks  that  lies  mostly  for  profit,  and  some  that  lies 
largely  for  their  own  amusement,  and  they  both  do 
jest  about  as  much  damage  in  the  long  run,  and  I  ain't 
no  better,  jest  because  I  never  made  nothin'  outer* 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  141 

mine.  But  if  you  could  kinda  drop  me  a  line,  maybe 
once  in  a  while,  and  tell  me  how  you're  gittin'  on,  I'd 
be  mighty  glad  to  hear.  An'  it  wouldn't  do  no  harm, 
either."  He  nodded  his  head,  in  turn,  in  the  direc 
tion  of  the  drab  cottage  across  the  valley.  "Because 
— because  she's  goin'  to  be  waitin'  to  hear — she's 
goin'  to  be  sorry,  and  kinda  wonderin'.  I  know — 
well,  jest  because  I  know!" 

Still  he  lingered,  with  his  fingers  on  the  door  catch. 
He  shoved  out  his  free  hand. 

"I — I  suppose  we'd  ought  to  shake  hands,  hedn't 
we,"  he  faltered;  "bein'  as  it's  kinda  considered  the 
reg'lar  and  customary  thing  to  do  on  such  occa 
sions?" 

Denny  was  smiling  as  his  hand  closed  over  those 
clawlike  fingers;  he  was  smiling  in  a  way  that  Old 
Jerry  had  never  seen  before.  Because  the  noise  in 
his  throat  was  growing  alarmingly  louder  every  mo 
ment,  the  latter  went  on  talking  almost  wildly,  to 
cover  that  weakness  which  he  could  not  control. 

"I  hope  you  git  on,"  he  said.  "And  I  reckon  you 
will.  It's  funny — it's  more'n  that — and  I  don't  know 
where  I  got  the  idea.  But  it's  kinda  come  to  me, 
somehow,  that  maybe  it  was  that  account  in  the  paper 
— that  story  of  Jeddy  Conway — that's  set  you  to 
leavin'.  It  aint'  none  of  my  business,  and  I  ain't  askin' 
no  questions,  but  I  do  want  to  say  that  there  never 
was  a  time  when  you  couldn't  lick  the  everlastin'  tar 


142  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

outen  him.  And  you've  growed  some  since  then. 
Jest  a  trifle — jest  a  trifle!" 

The  boy's  smile  widened  and  widened.  Then  he 
laughed  aloud  softly  and  nodded  his  head. 

"I'll  send  you  the  papers,"  he  promised.  "I'll  send 
you  all  of  them." 

Old  Jerry  stood  with  his  outstretched  hand  poised 
in  mid-air  while  he  realized  that  his  chance  shot  had 
gone  home.  And  suddenly,  unaccountably,  he  began 
to  chuckle;  he  began  to  cackle  noisily. 

"I  might  'a'  knowed  it,"  he  whispered.  "I  ought 
to  hev  knowed  it  all  along.  Now,  you  don't  hev  to 
worry — they  ain't  one  mite  of  a  thing  I  ain't  a-goin' 
to  see  to  while  you're  away.  You  don't  want  noth- 
in'  on  your  mind,  because  you're  goin'  to  hev  a 
considerable  somethin'  on  your  hands.  And  I  got 
to  git  along  now.  Godfrey,  but  it's  late  for  me  to 
be  up  here,  ain't  it?  I  got  to  hustle,  if  I  ever  did; 
and  there  ain't  too  much  time  to  spare.  For  tonight 
— tonight,  before  I  git  through,  I  aim  to  put  a  spoke 
in  the  Jedge's  wheel,  down  to  the  Tavern,  that'll 
make  him  think  the  axles  of  that  yello'-wheeled  gig 
of  his'n  needs  greasin'.  Jest  a  trifle — jest  a  trifle!" 

He  opened  the  door  and  slammed  it  shut  behind 
him  even  before  the  boy  could  reply.  Still  smiling 
whimsically,  Young  Denny  stood  and  listened  to  the 
grating  of  the  wheels  as  the  buggy  was  turned  about 
outside — heard  the  old  rig  groan  once,  and  then 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  143 

complain  shrilly  as  it  started  on  its  way.  But  no 
one  witnessed  Old  Jerry's  wild  descent  to  the  village 
that  night;  no  one  knew  the  mad  speed  he  made,  save 
the  old  mare  between  the  shafts;  and  she  was  kept 
too  busy  with  the  lash  that  whistled  over  her  fat 
flanks  to  have  given  the  matter  any  consistent 
thought. 

Old  Jerry  drove  that  scant  mile  or  two  this  night 
under  the  spur  of  his  one  greatest  inspiration;  and 
while  he  drove  he  talked  aloud  to  himself. 

"And  I  was  a-goin'  to  fix  it  for  him,"  he  muttered 
once.  "I  was  a-goin'  to  fix  that  old  busted  jug  in 
the  morning.  Godfrey,  I  must  'a*  been  flustered!" 
He  shrilled  in  uncontrollable  glee  at  the  recollection. 
And  then  again,  later  and  far  more  gravely : 

"I'm  a-gittin'  more  religious  every  livin'  day.  I'm 
gittin'  more  religious  jest  from  standin'  around  and 
kinda  watchin'  how  things  is  made  to  work  out  right, 
jest  when  you've  about  decided  that  the  Lord  ain't 
payin'  as  much  attention  to  details  as  he  might" 

He  knew  that  there  had  to  be  a  light  in  the  windows 
of  the  Tavern  office;  he  knew  that  he  had  to  be 
in  time.  That  was  the  finger  of  a  Something  behind 
the  whole  day's  developments  which  was  directing 
it  all  so  masterfully.  And  because  he  was  so  certain 
of  it  all — because  he  was  positive  that  he  was  the 
agent  who  had  been  selected  to  mete  out  justice  at  last 
— he  found  himself  possessed  of  a  greater  courage 


i44  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

than  he  had  ever  known  before  as  he  clambered 
down  from  his  seat  and  mounted  the  worn  steps. 

A  rush  of  chill  air  swept  the  group  about  the 
sprawling  stove  as  he  opened  the  door  and  made  each 
member  lift  his  head,  each  after  a  fashion  that  was 
startlingly  indicative  of  the  man  himself.  For  Judge 
Maynard  wheeled  sharply  as  the  cold  blast  struck  him 
— wheeled  with  head  flung  back  challengingly,  and 
a  harsh  rebuke  in  every  feature — while  old  D'ave 
Shepard  turned  and  merely  shiverd.  He  just  shivered 
and  flinched  a  little  from  the  draft,  appealingly.  The 
rest  registered  an  ascending  scale  of  emotions  betwixt 
and  between. 

Just  as  he  knew  he  would  find  them  they  sat. 
Judge  Maynard  had  the  floor;  and  it  was  an  easy 
thing  to  read  that  he  had  all  but  reached  the  crisis 
of  his  recital.  Any  man  could  have  read  that  merely 
from  the  protest  in  the  faces  of  the  rest.  And  yet 
Old  Jerry  simply  stood  there  and  swept  the  group 
with  serene  and  dangerous  geniality. 

"Evenin',  folks,"  he  saluted  them  mildly. 

His  mildness  was  like  a  match  to  the  fuse.  Judge 
Maynard  pounded  his  fat  knee  with  a  fatter  fist,  and 
exploded  thunderously: 

"Shut  that  door!"  he  roared.     "Shut  that  door!" 

Old  Jerry  complied  with  amazing  alacrity.  The 
very  panels  shivered  with  the  force  of  the  swing  that 
slammed  it  close.  The  Judge  should  have  known 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  145 

right  there — he  should  have  read  the  writing  on  the 
wall — and  yet  he  failed  to  do  that  thing.  Instead, 
he  turned  back  once  more  to  his  audience — back  to 
his  interrupted  tale,  and  left  Old  Jerry  standing  there 
before  the  door,  ignored. 

"As  I  was  sayin'."  He  cleared  his  throat.  "As 
I  was  sayin'  when  this  unnecessary  interruption  oc 
curred,  I  realized  right  from  the  moment  when  I 
opened  the  door  and  saw  him  standing  there  in  front 
of  me,  grinning,  and  his  chin  cut  wide  open,  that 
there  was  something  wrong.  I  am  a  discerning  man 
— and  I  knew !  And  it  didn't  take  me  long  to  con 
vince  him — not  very  long! — that  there  were  other 
communities  wrhich  would  find  him  more  welcome  than 
this  one.  Maybe  I  was  harsh — maybe  I  was — but 
harsh  cases  require  harsh  remedies.  And  because 
he  didn't  have  the  money,  I  offered  to  let  him  have 
enough  to  carry  him  out  of  town,  and  something  to 
keep  him  about  as  long  as  he'll  last  now,  I'm  thinking, 
although  that  place  of  his  isn't  worth  as  much  as 
the  paper  to  write  the  mortgage  on. 

"I  knew  it  had  come  at  last — but,  at  that,  I  didn't 
get  anything  that  I  wanted  to  call  real  proof  until 
after  we'd  drawn  up  the  papers  and  signed  'em,  and 
were  about  ready  to  start  back.  Then,  when  we  were 
coming  down  the  steps  of  the  clerk's  office,  I  got  all 
the  proof  I  wanted,  and  a  little  more  than  that.  He — 
he  stumbled  just  about  then,  and  would  have  gone 


146  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

down  on  his  face  if  I  hadn't  held  him  up.  And  he 
was  laughing  out  loud  to  himself,  chuckling,  with 
one  fist  full  of  money  fit  to  draw  a  crowd.  And  he 
pulled  away  from  me  just  when  I  was  trying  to  force 
him  into  the  buggy — pulled  away  and  sort  of  leered 
up  at  me,  waving  that  handful  of  bills  right  under  my 
nose. 

"  'Oh,  come  now,  Judge,'  he  sort  of  hiccoughed, 
'this  ain't  the  way  for  two  old  friends  to  part.  This 
ain't  the  way  for  me  to  treat  an  old  friend  who's 
given  me  this.  I  want  to  buy  you  something — I  want 
to  buy  you  at  least  one  drink — before  I  go.  Come 
on,  now,  Judge.  What'll  you  have?'  says  he." 

They  had  all  forgotten  Old  Jerry's  interruption; 
they  had  forgotten  everything  else  but  the  Judge's 
recital,  that  was  climbing  to  its  climax.  That  room 
was  very  quiet  when  the  speaker  paused  and  waited 
for  his  words  to  sink  in — very  quiet  until  a  half- 
smothered  giggle  broke  the  stillness. 

There  was  an  unholy  glee  in  that  mirth — a  mock 
ing,  lilting  note  of  actual  joy  which  rang  almost  pro 
fane  at  such  a  moment.  Man  for  man  it  brought 
that  circle  erect  in  the  chairs;  man  for  man  they  sat 
and  stared  at  the  grotesque  figure  which  was  rocking 
now  in  a  paroxysm  of  laughter  too  real  for  simula 
tion.  In  a  breathless  hush  they  turned  from  the 
offender  back  to  the  judge,  waiting,  appalled,  for  the 
storm  to  break. 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  147 

Judge  Maynard's  round  moon-face  went  purple. 
Twice  he  tried  to  speak  before  he  sat  silent,  anni 
hilation  in  his  eyes,  until  Jerry's  outbreak  had  sub 
sided.  Then  he  lifted  one  forefinger  and  pointed, 
with  all  the  majesty  such  a  gesture  could  ever  convey, 
to  the  empty  chair — the  chair  which  Old  Jerry  should 
have  been  occupying  in  becoming  silence  at  that  mo 
ment. 

"Have  you  gone  crazy?"  he  thundered.  "Have 
you — or  are  you  just  naturally  witless  ?  Or  was  there 
something  you  wanted  to  say?  If  there  isn't — if 
you've  no  questions  to  ask — you  get  over  to  that 
chair  and  sit  down  where  you  belong !" 

It  was  then  that  the  rest  of  the  circle  realized 
that  something  had  gone  wrong — most  mightily 
wrong !  According  to  all  precedent,  the  little,  white- 
haired  man  should  have  shrunk  back  and  cowered 
beneath  that  verbal  lash,  and  obeyed  without  a  glance. 
They  all  realized  that  there  was  imminent  a  climax 
unforeseen  by  all — all  but  the  Judge;  and  he  was  too 
blind  with  rage  to  see. 

Very  meekly^  Old  Jerry  bore  his  thundered  rebuke 
— too  meekly.  But  after  the  judge  had  finished  he 
failed  to  move;  he  merely  stood  there,  facing  the 
town's  great  man.  And  in  his  attitude  there  was 
something  of  infantile,  derisive,  sparrowlike  impu 
dence  as  he  peered  back  into  the  Judge's  face — some 
thing  that  was  very  like  the  attitude  of  an  outraged, 


i48  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

ruffled  old  reprobate  of  a  parrot  rearing  himself  erect. 

Old  Jerry  made  no  haste.  It  was  a  thing  which 
required  a  nice  deliberation.  And  so  he  waited — 
waited  and  prolonged  the  moment  to  its  last,  sweet 
est  second.  Once  more  he  chuckled,  to  himself  this 
time — just  once,  before  he  began  to  speak.  That 
old  Tavern  office  had  never  been  so  deathly  still 
before. 

"A  question?"  he  echoed  at  last,  thoughtfully.  "A 
question?  Well,  Jedge,  there  was  one  thing  I  was 
a-goin'  to  ask  you.  Jest  one  triflin'  thing  I  was  kinda 
curious  to  know.  Why,  I  was  a-goin'  to  ask  you, 
back  a  spell — What  did  you  hev?  It  kinda  inter 
ested  me,  wonderin'  about  it.  But  now — now  that 
I've  heard  your  story  in  full,  I  reckon  I'll  hev  to 
change  that  question  a  mite.  I  reckon  they  ain't 
nothin'  left  but  to  ask  you — How  many  did  you  hev? 
How  many,  Jedge?  For,  Jedge,  you're  talkin'  most 
mighty  wild  tonight!" 

And  that  silence  endured — endured  even  after  the 
huge  man  had  half-risen,  purple  features  gone  white, 
and  then  dropped  heavily  back  into  his  chair  before 
that  rigid  figure  in  its  sodden  garments  which  had 
turned  from  him  toward  the  rest  of  the  circle  of 
regulars. 

Old  Jerry  made  his  formal  exit  that  night — he 
knew  that  he  was  resigning  his  chair — but  the  thing 
was  very  cheap  at  the  price. 


'  WHAT  YOU  NEED,  GENTLEMEN.  IS  A  TRIFLE  WIDER  READIN'— JUST  A  TRIFLE  1 
BEIN'  WELL  POSTED  ON   FACTS!  " 


FOR    YOU  AIN'T 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  149 

"An'  I  reckon,  too,"  he  went  on  deliberately,  and 
there  was  a  wicked  fleer  of  sarcasm  tinging  the  words, 
"I  reckon  I'll  hev  to  kinda  apologize  to  you  gentle 
man  for  interruptin'  your  evenin's  entertainment,  as 
you  might  say.  I'm  sorry  I  ain't  able  to  remain,  for 
it's  interestin'.  I  don't  know's  I've  ever  heard  any 
thing  that  was  jest  as  excitin'  an'  thrillin',  but  I've  got 
something  more  important  needin'  my  attention  this 
evenin' — meanin'  that  I  ain't  got  nothin'  in  particular 
that's  a-callin'  me !  But  it's  no  more'n  my  plain  duty 
for  me  to  tell  you  this :  You'd  ought  to  follow  the 
papers  a  mite  closer  from  now  on.  It's  illuminatin' — 
it's  broadenin'!  What  you  need,  gentlemen,  is  a 
trifle  wider  readin' — jest  a  trifle — jest  a  trifle  1  For 
you  ain't  bein'  well  posted  on  facts!" 

Nobody  moved.  Nobody  was  capable  of  stirring 
even.  Old  Jerry  bowed  to  them  from  the  doorway — 
he  bowed  till  the  water  trickled  in  a  stream  from  the 
brim  of  his  battered  hat. 

And  this  time,  as  he  passed  out,  he  closed  the 
door  very  gently  behind  him. 


CHAPTER  XI 

IT  would  have  been  hard  for  her  to  have  explained 
just  why  it  was  so,  but  Dryad  Anderson  had  been 
sitting  there  in  the  unlighted  front  room  of  the 
little  once-white  cottage  before  Judge  Maynard's  box- 
like  place  on  the  hill,  watching  hour  after  hour  for 
that  light  to  blink  out  at  her  from  the  dark  window  of 
Denny  Bolton's  house  on  the  opposite  slope.  Ever 
since  it  had  grown  dark  enough  for  that  signal  to  be 
seen,  which  had  called  across  to  her  so  many  nights, 
she  had  been  waiting  before  the  table  in  front  of  the 
window — waiting  even  while  she  told  herself  that  it 
could  not  appear.  It  was  not  Saturday  night;  there 
was  no  real  reason  why  she  should  be  watching,  unless 
— unless  it  was  hope  that  held  her  there. 

Only  in  the  last  few  hours  since  twilight  had  she 
admitted  to  herself  the  possibility  that  such  a  hope 
lurked  behind  her  vigil.  Before  then,  when  the 
thought  had  first  come  to  her  that  Denny  might  cry 
out  to  her  through  the  night,  with  that  half-shuttered 
light,  she  had  stifled,  it  with  a  savageness  that  left 
her  shaking,  panting  and  dizzy  from  its  bewildering 
intensity. 

Time  after  time  she  told  herself  that  it  would  go 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  151 

unheeded  by  her,  no  matter  how  long  or  how  insist 
ently  it  beckoned,  if  by  the  hundredth  chance  it  should 
flare  up  beyond  the  shadows,  but  as  minutes  dragged 
interminably  by  into  equally  interminable  hours,  the 
strained  fierceness  of  that  whispered  promise  grew 
less  and  less  knifelike  in  its  hardness — less  and  less 
assured. 

Somehow,  ever  since  the  first  light  of  that  gray 
day  had  discovered  her  sitting  there  in  almost  the 
same  position  in  which  she  now  sat,  eyes  straining 
out  across  the  valley,  pointed  chin  cupped  in  her 
palms,  that  fearful,  almost  insane  passion  which  had 
held  each  nerve  and  fiber  of  her  taut  as  tight-stretched 
wire  through  the  entire  sleepless  night,  had  begun 
to  give  way  to  something  even  less  easy  to  endure. 

All  the  terror  which  had  checked  her  that  even 
ing  when  she  swung  the  door  open  and  stood  poised 
on  the  threshold,  a  low  laugh  of  sheerest  delight  in 
the  costume  she  had  worn  across  for  him  to  see  ready 
to  burst  from  parted  lips — all  the  horror  that  had 
held  her  incapable  of  motion  until  Denny  had  swung 
around  and  found  her  there,  and  lifted  his  arms  and 
attempted  to  speak,  had  given  way,  in  the  first  hours 
that  followed,  to  a  flaming  scorn,  a  searing  contempt 
for  him  and  for  his  weakness  that  had  lost  him  his 
fight. 

All  through  that  night  which  followed  her  panic 
flight  from  the  huge,  heavy-footed  figure  that  had 


152  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

groped  out  for  her,  called  to  her,  and  dropped  asprawl 
her  own  small  cloak  in  the  doorway,  Denny  Bolton's 
blood-soiled  face  and  drunkenly  reckless  laugh  had 
been  with  her,  feeding  that  rage  which  scorched  her 
eyes  beneath  their  lids — that  burned  her  throat  and 
choked  her. 

Little  drops  of  blood  oozed  out  upon  her  lips — 
strangely  brilliant  crimson  drops  against  that  color 
less  background — where  her  teeth  sank  deep  in  the 
agony  of  disillusionment  that  made  each  pulse-beat 
a  sledge-hammer  blow  within  her  brain.  Her  small 
palms  were  etched  blue  under  the  clenched  fingers 
where  the  nails  bit  the  flesh.  And  yet — and  yet,  for 
all  the  agony  of  it  which  made  her  lift  her  blanched 
face  from  time  to  time  throughout  the  night — a  face 
•so  terribly  strained  that  it  was  almost  distorted — and 
set  her  gasping  chokingly  that  she  hated  him,  hated 
him  for  a  man  who  couldn't  fight  and  keep  on  fighting, 
•even  when  the  odds  were  great — when  the  light  of 
that  new,  dreary  day  had  come  streaking  in  across 
her  half-bowed  head,  something  else  began  to  take 
the  place  of  all  that  bitterness  and  scorn. 

And  throughout  the  day  she  had  still  been  strug 
gling  against  it,  struggling  with  all  the  tense  fierce 
ness  of  which  her  spirit  was  capable — her  spirit  that 
was  far  too  big  for  the  slim  body  that  housed  it. 
Yet  that  thought  could  not  be  shaken  off.  She 
couldn't  forget  it,  couldn't  wipe  out  the  recollection 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  153 

of  that  great,  gaping  wound  that  had  dripped  blood 
from  his  chin.  She  tried  to  close  her  eyes  and  shut 
it  out  as  she  went  from  task  to  task  that  day,  and 
it  would  not  fade. 

Somehow  it  wasn't  that  man  at  all  whom  she  re 
membered  as  the  afternoon  dragged  by  to  its  close;  it 
wasn't  the  big-shouldered  body  nervelessly  asprawl 
upon  the  floor  that  filled  her  memory.  Instead  a 
picture  of  an  awkward,  half-grown  boy  flashed  up 
before  her — a  big,  ungainly,  terribly  embarrassed  boy 
who  turned  from  watching  the  mad  flight  of  a  rabbit 
through  the  brush  to  smile  at  her  reassuringly,  ever 
though  his  face  was  torn  raw  from  her  own  nails. 

That  was  the  point  at  which  the  tide  of  her  cha 
otic  thoughts  began  to  waver  and  turn.  Long  before 
she  realized  what  she  was  doing  she  had  fallen  to 
wondering,  with  a  solicitude  that  made  moist  and 
misty  once  more  her  tip-tilted  eyes  and  softened  the 
thin  line  of  her  lips,  whether  or  not  that  bruise  had 
been  washed  out,  cleansed  and  cleanly  bandaged. 

When  she  did  realize  what  that  thought  meant,  it 
had  been  too  long  with  her  to  be  routed.  She  was 
too  tired  to  combat  it,  anyway,  too  tired  with  the 
reaction  of  that  long,  throbbing  night  to  do  more 
than  wonder  at  herself.  Twilight  came  and  the  gray 
mist  that  had  been  over  the  hills  for  hours  dissolved 
into  rain.  With  the  first  hint  of  darkness  that  the 
storm  brought  with  it  she  began  to  watch — to  peer  out 


154  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

of  the  window  whenever  her  busy  footsteps  carried 
her  past  it,  at  the  bleak  place  across  the  hollow. 
Before  it  was  fairly  night  she  began  to  understand 
that  she  was  not  merely  watching  for  the  light,  but 
hoping,  praying  wordlessly  that  it  might  shine.  And 
when  her  work  was  finished  she  had  taken  her  place 
there,  her  slim  body  in  its  scant  black  skirt  and  little 
white  blouse  hunched  boyishly  forward  as  always 
across  the  table. 

Even  that  girl  who,  after  the  hours  which  had 
been  almost  cataclysmic  for  her,  could  scarcely  have 
been  expected  to  be  able  to  comprehend  it  clearly  yet 
— even  she  read  the  meaning  of  the  slackened  cords 
of  her  body,  of  her  loosened  lips  and  wet  eyes.  As 
long  as  she  could  she  had  fed  the  flame  within  her 
soul — fed  it  with  every  bitter  thought  and  harsh 
judgment  which  her  brain  could  evolve — and  yet  that 
flame  had  slackened  and  smouldered  and  finally  died 
out  entirely.  Self-shame,  self-scorn  even,  could  not 
rekindle  it. 

Her  lips  were  no  longer  white  and  straight  and 
feverish  with  contempt;  they  were  damp  and  full 
again,  and  curved  and  half-open  with  compassion. 
The  ache  was  still  there  in  her  breast — a  great  gnaw 
ing  pain  which  it  seemed  at  that  moment  time  could 
never  remove,  but  it  was  no  longer  the  wild  hatred 
which  made  her  pant  with  a  desire  to  make  him 
suffer,  too,  just  as  she  had  suffered  that  night  through. 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  155 

The  pain  was  just  as  great,  but  it  was  pity  now — 
only  pity  and  an  unaccountable  yearning  to  draw  that 
bruised  face  down  against  her  and  croon  over  it. 

In  spite  of  the  numbness,  in  spite  of  the  lassitude 
which  that  burnt-out  passion  had  left  behind  in  brain 
and  body,  she  knew  what  it  meant.  She  understood. 
She  had  hated  his  weakness;  she  still  hated  his  lack 
of  manhood  which  had  made  him  fail  her.  That 
hatred  would  be  a  long  time  dying  now — if  it  ever 
did  perish.  But  she  couldn't  hate  him!  She  looked 
that  fact  in  the  face,  dumb  at  first  at  the  awakening. 
She  couldn't  hate  him — not  the  man  he  was !  There 
was  a  distinction — a  difference  very  clear  to  her 
woman-brain.  She  could  despise  his  cowardice;  she 
could  despise  herself  for  caring  still — but  the  caring 
still  went  on.  Half-vaguely  she  realized  it,  but  she 
knew  the  change  had  come.  The  girlishness  was 
gone  from  it  forever.  She  had  to  care  now  as  a 
woman  always  cares — not  for  the  thing  he  was,  but 
in  spite  of  it. 

"I  ought  to  hate  him,"  she  told  herself  once,  aloud. 
"I  know  I  ought  to  hate  him,  and  yet — and  yet  I 
don't  believe  I  can.  Why,  I — I  can't  even  hate  my 
self,  as  I  did  a  little  while  back,  because  I  still  care !" 

It  was  a  habit  that  had  grown  out  of  her  long 
loneliness — those  half-whispered  conversations  with 
herself.  And  now  only  one  conviction  remained. 
Again  and  again  she  told  herself  that  she  could  not  go 


i56  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

to  meet  him  that  night — could  not  go,  even  if  he 
should  call  to  her.  And  that,  too,  she  put  into  whis 
pered  words. 

"Even  if  he  lights  the  window,  I  can't — I  couldn't  1 
Oh,  not  tonight!  He  won't — he  won't  think  of  it. 
But  I  couldn't  let  him  touch  me — until — until  I've 
had  a  little  time  to  forget !" 

But  she  was  watching  still — watching  with  small, 
gold-crowned  head  nodding  heavily,  eyes  half-veiled 
with  sinking  lids — when  that  half-shaded  window  in 
the  dark  house  glowed  suddenly  yellow  with  the  light 
behind  it.  She  was  still  hoping,  praying  dumbly 
that  it  might  be,  when  Young  Denny  lifted  the  black- 
chimneyed  lamp  from  its  bracket  on  the  kitchen  wall 
<-hat  night,  after  he  had  stood  and  listened  with  a 
smile  on  his  lips  to  Old  Jerry's  hurried  departure,  and 
carried  it  into  the  front  room  which  he  scarcely  ever 
entered  except  upon  that  errand. 

At  first  she  did  not  believe.  She  thought  it  was 
only  a  trick  of  her  brain,  so  tired  now  that  it  was 
as  little  capable  of  connected  thought  as  her  worn- 
out  body  was  of  motion.  Hardly  breathing  she  stared 
until  she  saw  the  great  blot  of  his  body  silhoutted 
against  the  pane  for  a  moment  as  he  crowded  between 
the  lamp,  staring  across  at  her,  she  knew. 

She  rose  then,  rose  slowly  and  very  cautiously  as 
though  she  feared  her  slightest  move  might  make  it 
vanish.  Young  Denny's  bobbing  lantern,  swinging  in 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  157 

one  hand  as  he  crossed  before  the  house  and  plunged 
into  the  thicket  that  lay  between  them,  was  all  that 
convinced  her — made  her  believe  that  she  had  seen 
aright. 

"I  can't  go — I  can't!"  she  breathed.  And  then, 
lifting  her  head,  vehemently,  as  if  he  could  hear: 

"I  want  to — oh,  you  know  I  want  to !  But  I  can't 
come  to  you  tonight — not  until  I've  had  a  little  longer 
— to  think." 

Almost  before  she  had  finished  speaking  another 
voice  answered,  a  soft,  dreamy  voice  that  came  so 
abruptly  in  the  quiet  house  that  it  made  her  wheel 
like  a  startled  wild  thing.  She  had  forgotten  him 
for  the  time — that  little,  stooped  figure  at  its  bench 
in  the  back  room  workshop.  For  hours  she  had  not 
given  him  a  thought,  and  he  had  made  not  so  much 
as  a  motion  to  make  her  remember  his  presence.  She 
could  not  even  remember  when  his  sing-song,  unend 
ing  monologue  had  ceased,  but  she  realized  then  that 
he  had  been  more  silent  that  night  than  ever  before. 

Earlier  in  the  evening  when  she  had  lighted  his 
lamp  for  him  and  set  out  his  lump  of  moist  clay,  and 
helped  him  to  his  place  on  the  high  stool,  she  had 
thought  to  notice  some  difference  in  him. 

Usually  John  Anderson  was  possessed  of  one  or 
two  unvarying  moods.  Either  he  plunged  contentedly 
into  his  task  of  reproducing  the  multitude  of  small 
white  figures  around  the  walls,  or  else  he  merely  sat 


158  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

and  stared  up  at  her  hopelessly,  vacantly,  until  she  put 
the  clay  herself  into  his  hands.  Tonight  it  had  been 
different,  for  when  she  had  placed  the  damp  mass 
between  his  limp  fingers  he  had  laid  it  aside  again, 
raised  astonishingly  clear  eyes  to  hers  and  shaken 
his  head. 

"After  a  little — af>er  a  little  while,"  he  had  said. 
"I — I  want  to  think  a  little  first." 

It  had  amazed  her  for  a  moment.  At  any  other 
time  it  would  have  frightened  her,  but  tonight  as 
she  stroked  his  bowed  head,  she  told  herself  that  it 
was  nothing  more  than  a  new  vagary  of  his  anchor 
less  mind. 

But  that  same  strangely  clear,  almost  sane  glow 
which  had  puzzled  her  then  was  still  there  when  she 
turned.  It  was  even  brighter  than  before,  and  the 
slow  words  which  had  startled  her,  for  all  their 
dreamy  softness,  seemed  very  sane  as  well. 

"You  have  to  go,"  John  Anderson  answered  her 
faltering,  half-audible  whisper.  "You  have  to  go — 
but  you'll  be  back  soon.  Oh,  so  soon!  And  I'll  be 
safe  till  you  come !" 

Dryad  flashed  forward  a  step,  both  hands  half- 
raised  to  her  throat  as  he  spoke,  almost  believing 
that  the  miracle  for  which  she  had  ceased  even  to 
hope  had  come  that  night.  And  then  she  under 
stood — she  knew  that  the  bent  figure  which  had 
already  turned  back  to  its  bench  had  only  repeated 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  159 

her  words,  parrotlike;  she  knew  that  he  had  only 
pieced  together  a  recollection  of  the  absence  which 
her  vigil  before  the  window  had  meant  on  a  former 
occasion  and  repeated  her  own  words  of  that  other 
night. 

And  yet  her  brain  clamored  that  there  was  more 
behind  it  all  than  mere  witless  repetition.  John 
Anderson  was  smiling  at  her,  too,  smiling  like  a 
benevolent  wraith.  She  saw  that  his  pile  of  clay 
was  still  untouched,  but  there  was  no  hint  of  petu 
lant  perplexity  in  his  face,  nothing  of  the  terrified 
impotence  which  the  inactivity  of  his  fingers  had 
always  heralded  before.  He  was  just  smiling — 
vaguely  to  be  sure  and  a  little  uncertainly — but 
smiling  in  utter  contentment  and  satisfaction,  for  all 
that. 

Very  slowly — wonderingly,  she  crossed  to  him  and 
put  both  arms  about  his  white  head  and  drew  it 
against  her. 

"I  think  you  knew,"  she  said  to  him,  unsteadily. 
"I  think  you  are  able  to  understand  better  than  I 
can  myself.  And  I  know,  too,  now.  I  do  have  to 
go — I  must  go  to  him.  But  he  need  not  even  know, 
until  I  tell  him  some  day — that  I  was  with  him  to 
night." 

The  old  man  pulled  away  from  her  clasp,  gently 
but  very  insistently.  And  he  nodded — nodded  as 
though  he  had  understood.  She  paused  and  looked 


i6o  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

back  at  him  from  the  doorway,  just  as  she  had  always 
hesitated.  He  was  following  her  with  his  eyes. 
Again  he  shook  his  head,  just  as  positively  as  he 
might  have,  had  he  been  the  man  he  might  have  been. 

"Some  day,"  he  reiterated,  serenely,  "some  day ! 
And  she'll  know  then — some  day  I'll  tell  her — that 
I  was  with  her  to-night." 

She  had  forgotten  the  rain.  It  was  coming  down 
heavily,  and  it  was  dark,  too — very,  very  dark.  She 
stopped  a  while,  as  long  as  she  dared,  and  waited 
with  the  rain  beating  cold  upon  her  uncovered  head 
and  bare  throat  until  her  eyes  saw  the  path  a  little 
more  clearly.  It  took  her  a  long  time  to  feel  her 
way  forward  that  night.  And  even  when  she  came 
within  sight  of  Denny's  lantern,  even  when  she  was 
near  enough  to  see  him  through  the  thicket  ahead 
of  her,  in  the  little  patch  of  light,  she  had  not  de 
cided  what  she  meant  to  do. 

But  with  that  first  glimpse  of  him  squatting  there 
in  the  small  cleared  space  it  came  to  her  what  her 
course  should  be.  She  realized  that  if  it  was  an 
impossibility  for  her  to  go  to  him,  she  could  at  least 
let  him  know  she  had  been  there — let  him  know  that 
he  had  not  been  entirely  alone  while  he  waited.  She 
even  smiled  to  herself — smiled  with  wistful,  half-sad, 
elfen  tenderness  as  she,  too,  huddled  down  without 
a  sound,  there  in  the  wet  bushes  opposite  him,  and 
decided  how  she  would  tell  him. 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  161 

Denny  Bolton  never  quite  knew  how  long  he 
waited  in  the  rain  before  he  was  certain  that 
there  was  no  use  waiting  longer.  More  than  half 
the  night  had  dragged  by  when  he  reached  finally 
into  the  pockets  of  his  coat  and  searched  for  a  scrap 
of  paper.  Watching  from  her  place  in  the  thicket 
near  him,  she  recognized  the  small  white  card  which 
he  discovered — she  even  reached  out  one  hand  in 
stinctively  for  her  invitation  from  the  Judge,  which 
she  had  told  him  had  never  arrived  and  for  which 
she  had  hunted  in  vain  throughout  the  following 
days. 

With  an  unaccountable  gladness  because  he  knew 
straining  at  her  throat,  she  watched  him  draw  the 
lantern  nearer  and  read  again  the  words  it  bore  be 
fore  he  turned  it  over  and  wrote,  laboriously,  with 
the  thick  pencil  that  he  used  to  check  logs  back  in 
the  hills,  some  message  across  its  back. 

It  was  a  message  to  her,  she  knew;  and  she  knew, 
too,  that  he  was  going  now.  Deliberately  she  reached 
out  then  and  found  a  rotten  branch  beside  her.  Young 
Denny's  head  shot  up  as  it  cracked  between  her 
hands — shot  swiftly  erect  while  he  stared  hard  at 
that  wall  of  darkness  which  hid  her.  And  swiftly 
as  she  fled,  like  some  noiseless  night  creature  of  the 
woods,  his  sudden,  plunging  rush  almost  discovered 
her. 

Back  in  the  safety  of  the  blackness  she  stood  and 


1 62  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

saw  him  bend  over  the  place  where  she  had  been 
crouching;  she  saw  him  put  his  hand  upon  the  patch 
of  dead  ferns  which  her  body  had  crushed  flat,  and 
knew  that  he  found  it  still  warm.  She  even  held  up 
her  face,  as  though  she  were  giving  him  her  lips — 
she  reached  out  her  arms  to  him — when  she  saw 
him  rise  from  an  examination  of  her  footprints  in 
the  mold,  smiling  his  slow,  infinitely  grave  smile  as 
he  nodded  his  head  over  what  he  had  seen. 

Back  over  the  path  she  had  come  she  followed 
the  dancing  point  of  his  lantern,  sometimes  almost 
upon  him,  sometimes  lagging  far  behind  when  he 
stopped  and  strained  his  ears  for  her.  All  recollec 
tion  of  the  night  before  was  gone  from  her  mind, 
wiped  out  as  utterly  as  though  it  had  never  existed. 
Nothing  but  a  great  gladness  possessed  her,  a  joy 
that  amounted  almost  to  mischievous  glee  whenever 
he  stood  still  a  moment  and  listened. 

Not  until  she  had  waited  many  minutes  after  he 
stooped  and  slipped  the  card  beneath  the  door  did 
she  come  out  from  the  cover  of  the  woods.  But  she 
raced  forward  madly  then,  and  flung  the  door  open, 
and  stooped  for  it  where  it  lay  white  against  the 
floor. 

All  the  mischievous  glee  went  from  her  face  in 
that  next  moment.  Bit  by  bit  it  faded  before  the 
advance  of  that  same  strained  whiteness  that  had 
marred  it,  hours  before.  All  the  wistfulness  that 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  1 63 

made  her  face  so  childlike,  all  the  hunger  that  made 
the  hurt  in  her  breast  came  back  while  she  read, 
over  and  over,  the  words  which  Denny  had  written 
for  her  across  the  back  of  her  card,  until  she  could 
repeat  them  without  looking  at  it.  And  even  then 
she  only  half-understood  what  they  meant.  Once 
she  opened  the  door  and  peered  out  into  the  black 
ness,  searching  for  the  lantern  that  had  disappeared. 

"Why — why  he's  gone!  He  came  to  tell  me  that 
he  was  going  away,"  she  murmured,  dully.  And 
then,  still  more  dully: 

"And  I  didn't  tell  him  I  was  sorry.  I've  let  him 
go  without  even  telling  him  how  sorry  I  was — for 
the  hurt  upon  his  chin !" 

Perhaps  it  was  the  silence  that  made  her  turn; 
perhaps  she  simply  turned  with  no  thought  or  rea 
son  at  all,  but  she  faced  slowly  about  at  that  mo 
ment,  just  in  time  to  see  John  Anderson  nod  and 
smile  happily  at  something  he  alone  could  see — just 
in  time  to  hear  him  sigh  softly  once,  before  his  arms 
went  slack  upon  his  work-bench  and  his  head  drooped 
forward  above  them. 

The  bit  of  a  card  fluttered  to  the  floor  as  both  her 
tight-clenched  fists  lifted  toward  her  throat.  The 
softest  of  pitying  little  moans  came  quavering  from 
her  lips.  She  needed  no  explanation  of  what  that 
suddenly  limp  body  meant!  And  she  understood 
better  now,  too,  that  untouched  lump  of  clay  upon- 


164  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

the  boards  beside  his  bowed  head.  John  Anderson's 
long  task  was  finished.  He  had  known  it  was  fin 
ished,  and  had  been  merely  resting  tonight — resting 
content  before  he  started  upon  that  long  journey, 
before  he  followed  that  face,  tumbled  of  hair  and 
uplifted  of  lip,  which  seemed  always  to  be  calling 
to  him. 

The  slim-bodied  girl  whose  face  was  so  like  what 
that  other  woman's  face  had  been  went  slowly  across 
to  him  where  he  sat.  After  a  while  she  slipped  her 
arm  about  his  wasted  shoulders,  just  as  she  had  done 
so  often  on  other  nights.  A  racking  sob  shook  her 
when  she  first  tried  to  speak — and  she  tried  again. 

"You  kept  faith,  didn't  you,  dear?"  she  whispered 
to  him.  "Oh,  but  you  kept  faith  with  her — right — 
right  up  to  the  end.  Please  God — please  God,  I 
may  get  my  chance  back  again — to  try  to  keep  it, 
too.  You've  gone  to  her — and — and  I'm  glad!  You 
waited  a  long  time,  dear,  and  you  were  very  pa- 
lient  But,  oh,  you've  left  me — you've  left  me  all 
alone !" 

The  tears  came  then.  Great,  searing  drops  that 
had  been  hopelessly  dammed  back  the  night  before 
rolled  down  her  thin  cheeks.  She  stooped 
and  touched  the  silvered  head  with  her  lips  before 
she  groped  her  way  into  the  other  room  and  found 
her  chair  at  the  table. 

"He  knew  I  was  there  with  him,"  she  tried  to 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  165 

whisper.     "He  knew  I  was,  I  know!     But  I  wish  I 
could  tell  him  I'm  sorry.    Oh,  I  wish  I  could !" 

And  Old  Jerry  found  her  so,  head  pillowed  upon 
her  outstretched  arms,  her  hair  in  a  marvelous  shim 
mering  mass  across  her  little  shoulders  when  he 
came  the  next  morning,  almost  before  the  day  was 
fairly  begun,  to  tell  her  all  the  things  there  were 
for  him  to  tell. 


CHAPTER  XII 

MONDAY  morning  was  always  a  busy  morn 
ing  in  Jesse  Hogarty's  Fourteenth  Street 
gymnasium;  busy,  that  is  to  say,  along  about 
that  hour  when  morning  was  almost  ready  to  slip 
into  early  afternoon.  The  reason  for  this  late  activ 
ity  was  very  easy  to  understand,  too,  once  one  real 
ized  that  Hogarty's  clientele — especially  that  of  his 
Monday  mornings — was  composed  quite  entirely  of 
that  type  of  leisurely  young  man  who  rarely  pointed 
the  nose  of  his  tub-seated  raceabout  below  Forty- 
second  Street,  except  for  the  benefits  of  a  few  rather 
desultory  rounds  under  Hogarty's  tutelage,  a  shock 
ing  plunge  beneath  an  icy  shower,  and  the  all  per 
vading  sense  of  physical  well-being  resultant  upon  a 
half  hour's  kneeding  of  none  too  firm  muscles  on 
the  marble  slabs. 

It  was  like  Jesse  Hogarty — or  Flash  Hogarty,  as 
he  had  been  styled  by  the  sporting  reporters  of  the 
saffron  dailies  ten  years  back,  when  it  was  said  that 
he  could  hit  faster  and  harcTer  out  of  a  clinch  than 
any  lightweight  who  ever  stood  in  canvas  shoes — to 
refuse  to  transfer  his  place  to  some  locality  a  bit 
nearer  Fifty-seventh  Street,  even  when  it  chanced, 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  167 

as  it  did  with  every  passing  year,  that  he  drew  his 
patrons — at  an  alarmingly  high  rate  per  patron — 
almost  entirely  from  far  uptown. 

"This  isn't  a  turkish  bath,"  Flash  Hogarty  was 
accustomed  to  answer  such  importunities.  "If  you 
are  just  looking  for  a  place  to  boil  out  the  poison, 
hunt  around  a  little — take  a  wide-eyed  look  or  two  1 
There  are  lots  and  lots  of  them.  This  isn't  a  turkish 
bath;  it's  a  gymnasium — a  man's  gymnasium!" 

That  was  his  invariable  formula,  alike  to  the  ob 
jections  of  the  youthful,  unlimited-of-allowance,  more 
or  less  hard-living  sons  that  it  "spoils  the  best  part 
of  the  week,  you  know,  Flash,  just  running  'way 
down  here,"  and  the  equally  earnest  and  far  more 
peevish  complaints  of  the  ticker  tired,  just-a-minute- 
to-spare  fathers  that  it  cost  them  about  five  thousand, 
just  to  take  an  hour  to  work  off  a  few  pounds. 

But  they  kept  on  coming,  in  spite  of  their  lack  of 
time  and  Hogarty's  calm  refusal  to  consider  their 
arguments — some  of  the  younger  men  because  they 
really  did  appreciate  the  sensation  of  flexible  muscles 
sliding  beneath  a  smooth  skin,  some  of  them  merely 
because  they  liked  to  hear  Hogarty's  fluently  pic 
turesque  profanity,  always  couched  in  the  most  de 
lightfully  modulated  of  English,  when  the  activity 
of  a  particularly  giddy  week-end  brought  them  back 
a  little  too  shaky  of  hand,  a  little  too  brilliant  of  eye 
and  a  trifle  jumpy  as  to  pulse.  Hogarty  had  a  way 


i68  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

of  telling  them  just  how  little  they  actually  amounted 
to,  which,  no  matter  how  wickedly  it  cut,  never  failed 
to  amuse  them. 

The  older  generation  dared  do  nothing  else,  even 
in  the  face  of  the  ex-lightweight's  scathingly  sar 
castic  admiration  of  their  constantly  increasing  waist 
line — or  lack  of  one.  For  their  lines  were  largely 
a  series  of  curves  exactly  opposite  to  those  on  which 
Nature  had  originally  designed  them. 

They  continued  to  come;  they  ran  down-town  in 
closed  town  cars,  padded  heavily  across  the  sidewalk 
like  sad  bovines  going  to  the  slaughter,  to  reappear 
an  hour  or  two  later  stepping  like  three-year-olds, 
serenely,  virtuously  joyous  at  the  tale  of  the  scales 
which  indicated  a  five-pound  loss.  And  the  Saturday 
and  Sunday  week-end  out  of  town  which  presently 
followed,  with  the  astoundingly  heavy  dinners  that 
accompanied  it,  brought  them  back  in  a  week,  sadder 
even  than  before. 

Monday  morning  was  always  a  very  busy  morning 
in  Hogarty's — but  never  until  along  about  noon.  And 
because  he  knew  how  infallible  were  the  habits  of 
his  patrons,  Hogarty  did  not  so  much  as  lift  his  eyes 
to  the  practically  empty  gymnasium  floor  when  a  clock 
at  the  far  side  of  the  room  tinkled  the  hour  of  eleven. 
The  two  boys  who  were  busily  scrubbing  with  wax- 
ing-mops  the  floor  that  already  glistened  like  the 
unruffled  surface  of  some  crystal  pool  were  quite  as 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  1 69 

unconcerned  at  the  lack  of  activity  as  was  their  em 
ployer.  They  merely  paused  long  enough  to  draw 
one  shirt  sleeve  across  the  sweat-beaded  foreheads — 
it  was  a  very  early  spring  in  Manhattan  and  the 
first  heat  was  hard  to  bear — and  went  at  their  task 
harder  than  ever. 

Hogarty  had  one  other  reason  that  morning  which 
accounted  for  his  absolute  serenity.  From  Third 
Avenue  to  the  waterfront  any  one  who  was  well-in 
formed  at  all — and  there  was  no  one  who  had  not 
at  least  heard  whispers  of  his  fame — knew  that  the 
thin-faced,  hard-eyed,  steel-sinewed  ex-lightweight 
who  dressed  in  almost  funeral  black  and  white  and 
talked  in  the  hushed,  measured  syllables  of  a  profes 
sor  of  English,  loved  one  thing  even  more  than  he 
loved  to  see  his  own  man  put  over  the  winning  punch 
in — say  the  tenth.  It  was  common  gossip  that  a  set 
of  ivory  dominoes  came  first  before  all  else. 

No  man  had  ever  ventured  to  interrupt  twice  the 
breathless  interest  with  which  Hogarty  was  accus 
tomed  to  play  his  game.  It  did  not  promise  to  be 
safe — a  second  interruption.  And  Hogarty  was 
playing  dominoes  this  particular  Monday  morning, 
at  a  little  round,  green-topped  table  against  the  wall 
opposite  the  door,  peering  stealthily  at  the  upturn 
ing  face  of  each  piece  of  a  newly  dealt  hand,  when 
the  clock  struck  off  that  hour.  But  if  Hogarty  was 
oblivious  to  everything  but  the  game,  his  opponent 


1 70  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

was  far  from  being  in  that  much  to  be  envied  state. 
Bobby  Ogden  yawned — yawned  from  sheer  ennui — 
although  he  tried  to  hide  that  indication  of  his  bore 
dom  behind  a  perfectly  manicured  hand,  while  he 
scowled  at  the  dial. 

Ogden  was  one  of  the  Monday  morning  regulars 
— one  of  the  crowd  which  usually  arrived  in  a  vis 
ibly  taut-nerved  condition  at  an  entirely  irregular 
and  undependable  hour.  An  attack  of  malignant  ma 
laria,  contracted  on  a  prolonged  'gator  hunt  in  the 
Glades,  coupled  with  the  equally  malignant  orders  of 
his  physician,  alone  accounted  for  his  presence  there 
at  that  unheard  of  o'clock. 

There  were  purplish  semi-circles  still  painfully  too 
vivid  beneath  his  eyes;  his  pallor  was  still  tinged  with 
an  ivory-like  shade  of  yellow.  And  he  fidgeted  con 
stantly  in  the  face  of  Hogarty's  happy  deliberation, 
stretching  his  heliotrope  silk-clad  arms  and  tapping, 
flat,  heelless  rubber-soled  shoes  on  the  floor  beneath 
the  table  in  a  fashion  that  would  have  irritated  any 
but  the  blandly  unconscious  man  across  the  table  from 
him  to  a  state  of  violence. 

Ogden's  quite  perfectly  lined  features  were  smooth 
with  the  smoothness  of  twenty  years  or  so.  His  lack 
of  stability  and  poise  belonged  also  to  that  age  and 
to  a  physique  that  managed  to  tilt  the  scale  beam  at 
one  hundred  and  eighteen — that  is,  unless  he  had 
been  forgetting  rather  more  rashly  than  usual  that 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  171 

liquids  were  less  sustaining  than  solids,  when  one 
hundred  and  ten  was  about  the  figure. 

He  was  playing  poorly  that  morning — playing  in 
attentively — with  his  eyes  always  waiting  for  the 
hands  to  indicate  that  hour  which  was  most  likely 
to  herald  the  arrival  of  the  advance  guard  of  the 
crowd  of  regulars.  Hogarty  himself,  after  a  time, 
began  to  feel,  vaguely,  his  uneasiness  and  lack  of 
application  to  the  matter  in  hand,  and  made  evident 
his  irritation  by  even  longer  pauses  before  each  play. 
He  liked  a  semblance  of  opposition  at  least,  and  he 
lifted  his  head,  scowling  a  little  at  Ogden's  last, 
most  flagrant  blunder,  to  find  that  his  antagonist 
had  moved  without  so  much  as  looking  at  the  piece 
he  had  slipped  into  position. 

The  boy  wasn't  looking  at  the  table  at  all.  He 
sat  twisted  about  in  his  chair,  staring  wide-eyed  at 
the  figure  that  had  pushed  open  the  street  door  and 
was  now  surveying  the  whole  room  with  an  aston 
ishingly  calm  attention  to  detail.  Ogden  was  star 
ing,  oblivious  to  everything  else,  and  with  real  cause, 
for  the  figure  that  had  hesitated  on  the  threshold 
was  like  no  other  that  had  ever  drifted  into  Hogarty's 
place  before.  His  shoulders  seemed  fairly  to  fill 
the  door-frame,  for  all  that  bigger  men  than  he  was 
had  stood  on  that  same  spot  and  gone  unnoticed  be 
cause  of  size  alone.  And  his  waist  appeared  almost 
slender,  and  his  hips  very  flat,  merely  from  contrast 


i72  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

with  all  that  weight  which  he  carried  high  in  his  chest. 

But  it  was  not  the  possibilities  of  the  newcomer's 
body  that  held  Ogden's  fascinated  attention.  In 
point  of  fact,  he  did  not  notice  that  at  all,  until  some 
time  later.  Denny  Bolton's  long,  tanned  face  was 
entirely  grave — even  graver  than  usual.  Just  a  hint 
of  wistfulness  that  would  never  quite  leave  them 
showed  in  his  eyes  and  lurked  in  the  line  of  his  lips 
— an  intangible,  fleeting  suggestion  of  expectation 
that  had  waited  patiently  for  something  that  had 
been  very  long  in  the  coming.  And  the  black  felt 
hat  and  smooth  black  suit  which  he  wore  finished 
the  picture  and  made  the  illusion  complete.  His 
face  and  figure,  even  there  in  the  doorway  of  Hogar- 
ty's  Fourteenth  Street  place,  could  have  suggested 
but  one  thing  to  an  observant  man.  He  might  have 
been  a  composite  of  all  the  New  England  Pilgrim 
Fathers  who  had  ever  braved  a  rock-bound  coast. 

And  Bobby  Ogden  was  observing.  Utterly  uncon 
scious  of  Hogarty's  threatening  storm  of  protest,  he 
sat  and  gazed  and  gazed,  scarcely  crediting  his  own 
eyes.  Domino  poised  in  hand,  Hogarty  had  turned 
in  preoccupied  resignation  back  to  a  perplexed  con 
templation  of  whether  it  would  be  better  to  play  a 
blank-six  and  block  the  game  or  a  double-blank  and 
risk  being  caught  with  a  handful  of  high  counters, 
when  Ogden  reached  out  and  clutched  him  by  the 
wrist. 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  1 73 

"Shades  of  Miles  Standish  I"  that  silk-shirted  per 
son  gasped.  "In  the  name  of  the  Mayflower  and 
John  Alden,  and  hallowed  Plymouth  Rock,  look, 
Flash,  look!  For  the  love  o'  Mike  look,  before  he 
moves  and  spoils  the  tableau !" 

Hogarty  lifted  his  head  and  looked. 

Denny  Bolton's  eyes  had  returned  from  their  de 
liberate  excursion  about  the  gymnasium  just  in  time 
to  meet  halfway  that  utterly  impersonal  scrutiny. 
For  a  long  moment  or  two  that  mutual  inspection  en 
dured;  then  the  boy's  lips  moved — open  with  a  smile 
that  was  far  graver  than  his  gravity  had  been — and 
he  started  slowly  across  the  floor  toward  the  table. 
Hogarty  half  rose,  one  hand  outstretched  as  if  to 
halt  him,  but  for  some  reason  which  the  ex-light 
weight  scarcely  understood  himself,  he  failed  to  utter 
the  protest  that  was  at  his  tongue's  end.  And  Young 
Denny  continued  to  advance — continued,  and  left  in 
the  rear  a  neatly  defined  trail  where  the  heavy  nails 
of  his  shoes  marred  the  sacred  sheen  of  that  floor. 

Within  arm's  reach  of  the  table  he  stopped,  his 
eyes  flitting  questioningly  from  Hogarty's  totally  in 
scrutable  face  to  the  tense  interest  and  enjoyment  in 
Bobby  Ogden's  features,  and  back  again.  Hogarty's 
hard  eyes  could  be  very  hard — hard  and  chilling  as 
chipped  steel — and  they  were  that  now.  He  was 
only  just  beginning  to  awake  to  a  realization  of  that 
profaned  floor,  but  the  smile  upon  Denny's  mouth 


174  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

neither  disappeared  nor  stiffened  in  embarrassment 
before  that  forbidding  countenance.  Instead  he  held 
out  his  hand — a  big,  long-fingered,  hard-palmed  hand 
— toward  the  ex-lightweight  proprietor,  And  when 
he  began  to  speak  there  was  nothing  but  simple  in 
terrogation  in  the  almost  ponderous  voice. 

"I — I  reckon,"  he  said  slowly,  "that  you  must  be 
Jesse  Hogarty — Mr.  Jesse  Hogarty?" 

Flash  Hogarty  looked  at  him,  looked  at  that  out 
stretched  hand — looked  back  at  his  steady  eyes  and 
the  smile  that  parted  his  lips.  And  Hogarty  did  a 
thing  that  made  even  Bobby  Ogden  gasp.  He  bowed 
gracefully  and  reached  out  and  silently  shook  hands. 
When  he  spoke,  instead  of  the  perfectly  enunciated, 
picturesquely  profane  rebuke  which  the  silk-shirted 
boy  was  waiting  to  hear,  his  voice  was  even  smoother 
and  softer,  and  choicer  of  intonation  than  usual. 

"Quite  so,"  he  stated.  "Quite  free  from  error  or 
embarrassing  mistake,  sir.  I  am  Mr.  Jesse  Hogar 
ty.  You,  however,  if  I  may  be  permitted  that  asser 
tion,  have  me  rather  at  a  disadvantage,  sir." 

He  bowed  again,  once  more  elaborately  graceful. 
Bobby  Ogden  hugged  his  knees  beneath  the  table, 
for  he  knew  from  the  very  suavity  of  that  reply  all 
that  was  brewing.  Hogarty's  silken  voice  went  on. 

"Regrettable,  sir,  and  most  awkward.  You,  no 
doubt,  have  no  objection,  however,  to  making  the  in 
troduction  complete?" 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  175 

The  smile  still  hovered  upon  Denny's  lips.  Ogden 
noted,  though,  that  it  had  changed.  And  he  real 
ized,  too,  that  it  had  not  been  a  particularly  mirth 
ful  smile,  even  in  the  first  place.  Again  Young  Den 
ny's  eyes  met  those  of  the  other  boy  for  one  moment. 

"I'm  Denny  Bolton,"  he  replied  just  as  deliber 
ately.  "Denny  Bolton,  from  Boltonwood — or — or  I 
reckon  you've  never  heard  of  that  place.  I'm  down 
from  the  hill  country,  back  in  the  north,"  he  supple 
mented. 

Hogarty  turned  away — turned  back  to  the  green- 
topped  table  and  played  the  double-blank  with  deli 
cate  precision. 

"Of  course,"  he  agreed  softly.  "Quite  right — 
quite  right !  And — er — may  I  inquire  if  it  was  some 
thing  of  importance — something  directly  concerning 
me — which  has  resulted  in  this  neighborly  call?" 

He  did  not  so  much  as  lift  his  eyes  from  the  dom 
inoes  beneath  his  fingers.  If  he  had  he  would  have 
seen,  as  Ogden  saw,  that  Denny's  smile  faded  away 
— disappeared  entirely.  But  when  he  replied  the 
boy's  voice  was  unchanged. 

"I  don't  know's  it's  particularly  important  to  you," 
he  answered.  "That's  what  I  came  down  for — to 
see.  I  was  directed — back  a  day  or  two  I  was  told 
that  maybe  if  I  looked  you  up  you'd  have  some 
opening  for  me,  down  here.  I  was  told  you  were 
looking  for  a — a  good  heavyweight  fighter  I" 


1 76  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

Bobby  Ogden  threw  back  his  head  to  laugh.  And 
instead  he  just  sat  there  with  his  mouth  wide  open, 
waiting.  He  felt  sure  that  there  was  a  better  mo 
ment  coming.  Hogarty  fiddled  with  the  dominoes 
and  seemed  to  be  considering  that  information  with 
due  deliberation  and  from  every  angle. 

"I  see,"  he  murmured  at  last.  "Surely.  Quite 
right — quite  right!  And  I  may,  I  believe,  safely 
assure  you  that  I  have  several  fine  openings  in  the 
establishment  for  young  men — for  just  the  right  sort 
of  young  men,  of  course.  May  I — er — inquire  if 
you  wish  employment  by  the — er — week,  or  just  in 
your  spare  time,  to  put  it  so?" 

The  question  was  icily  sarcastic.  Denny's  answer 
came  sharp  upon  its  heels.  His  voice  was  just  as 
measured,  just  as  inflectionless  as  Hogarty's  had 
been. 

"If  you  hire  them  here  by  the  week,"  he  said,  "or 
for  their  spare  time,  I — I  reckon  I've  come  to  the 
wrong  establishment.  I  was  only  asking  you  for  a 
chance  to  show  you  whether  I  was  any  good  or  not. 
I  was  told  you'd  be  just  as  interested  to  find  out  as 
I  was  myself.  Maybe — maybe  I've  made  a  bad  mis 
take!"  ' 

Bobby  Ogden  was  sorry  he  had  waited  to  laugh. 
There  was  a  hardness  in  the  big-shouldered  figure's 
words  that  he  did  not  like;  a  directly  simple,  unmis 
takable  rebuke  for  the  sneer  concealed  in  Hogarty's 


177 

question  that  could  not  be  misinterpreted.  And 
something  utterly  bad  flared  up  in  the  lean-faced 
black-clad  proprietor's  eyes — something  of  enmity 
that  seemed  to  Ogden  all  out  of  proportion  with  the 
provocation.  All  the  smooth  suavity  disappeared 
from  his  speech  just  as  chalk  marks  are  wiped  out 
by  a  wet  sponge.  And  Hogarty  came  swiftly  to  his 
feet. 

"Maybe  you  were — maybe  you  did  make  a  bad 
mistake  1"  he  rasped  out  in  a  dead,  colorless  mono 
tone  that  scarcely  moved  his  lips.  "But  no  man  ever 
came  into  this  place  yet,  and  went  out  again  to  say 
he  didn't  get  his  chance.  I  know  a  few  specimens 
who  make  a  profession  of  pleading  that.  They're 
quitters — and  they  assay  a  streak  of  yellow  that  isn't 
pay  dirt!" 

His  voice  dropped  in  register.  It  just  missed  be 
ing  hoarse.  With  a  rapidity  that  was  almost  bewil 
dering  he  began  to  give  orders  to  the  two  boys  who 
were  still  phlegmatically  waxing  the  floor.  And  the 
English-professor  intonation  was  gone  entirely. 

"You,  Joe !"  he  called,  "get  out  the  rods ;  set  'em  up 
and  rope  her  off !  Legs,  you  chase  out  and  find  Sut- 
ton,  if  he's  not  in  back.  You'll  run  into  him  at  Sharp's, 
most  likely.  Tell  him  to  come  a-running.  Tell  him  a 
new  one's  drifted  in  from  the  frontier — and  thinks 
he  needs  to  be  shown.  Move,  you  shrimp !" 

Before  he  had  finished  speaking  he  had  started 


i78  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

toward  the  locker  rooms  at  the  rear.  Denny  he  ig 
nored  as  though  he  did  not  exist.  He  went  without 
a  sound  in  his  rubber-soled  shoes.  Bobby  Ogden, 
waking  suddenly  from  his  trancelike  condition,  leaped 
to  his  feet  and  ran  after  him.  Hogarty  halted  at  the 
pressure  of  the  boy's  pink-nailed  fingers  on  his  arm 
and  wheeled  to  show  a  face  that  was  startlingly  white 
and  strained. 

"Why,  you  great  big  kid!"  Bobby  Ogden  flung 
at  him.  "You  big  infant !  You're  really  sore !  Don't 
you  know  he  didn't  mean  anything.  He's  only  a  kid 
himself — and  you  egged  him  into  it!" 

"Is  he?" 

From  that  gently  rising  inflection  alone  Ogden 
knew  that  interference  was  absolutely  hopeless. 

"Is  he?  Well,  he's  old  enough  to  seem  to  know 
what  he  wants.  And  he's  going  to  get  it — see?  He's 
going  to  get  it — and — get — it — good  I  No  man 
ever  flung  it  into  my  face  that  I  didn't  give  him  a 
chance — not  and  got  away  with  it." 

Hogarty  glanced  meaningly  down  at  the  restrain 
ing  hand  upon  his  sleeve  and  Ogden  removed  it  has 
tily.  He  stood  in  dismayed  indecision  until  the  ex- 
lightweight  had  disappeared  before  he  turned  to 
ward  Young  Denny,  who  had  been  watching  in  silence 
his  effort  at  intervention.  Denny  had  not  moved. 
Ogden's  almost  girlishly  modeled  face  was  more  than 
apprehensive  as  he  stepped  up  to  him. 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  179 

"He's  mad,"  he  stated  flatly.  "You've  got  him 
peeved  for  keeps.  And  I  guess  you've  let  yourself  in 
for  quite  a  merry  little  session,  too,  unless — unless" — 
he  hesitated,  peering  curiously  in  Denny's  grave  face 
— "unless  you  want  to  make  a  nice  quiet  little  exit  be 
fore  he  comes  back  with  Sutton.  You  can,  you  know, 
and — and  it  may  save  you  quite  a  little — er — discom 
fort  in  the  long  run.  Sutton — well,  the  least  I  can 
say  of  Sutton  is  that  he's  inclined  to  be  a  trifle  rough !" 

Ogden  saw  that  slow  smile  returning;  he  saw  it 
start  far  back  in  the  steady  eyes  and  spread  until 
it  touched  the  corners  of  the  other  boy's  lips  again. 

"You  mean — leave?"  Young  Denny  asked. 

Ogden  nodded  significantly. 

"That's  just  what  I  do  mean — only  a  great  deal 
more  so !" 

"But  I — I  couldn't  very  well  do  that  now — could 
I?" 

The  silk-shirted  shoulders  shrugged  hopelessly. 

"Well,  since  you  ask  me,"  he  said,  "judging  from 
what  I've  already  seen  of  your  methods,  I — I'd  say 
most  emphatically  no.  I've  done  all  I  can  when  I 
advise  you  that  now  is  the  one  best  hour  to  make 
your  getaway.  It  wouldn't  be  exactly  a  glorious  re 
treat  from  the  field,  but  it  wouldn't  be  so  painful, 
either.  Just  remember  that,  will  you?  I'm  to  fit 
you  out  with  some  fighting  togs,  I  suppose,  if  you'll 
just  come  along." 


1 80  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

He  turned  to  follow  in  the  direction  which  Ho- 
garty  had  taken,  and  then  paused  once  more. 

"Beg  pardon  for  the  omission,  Mr.  Bolton,"  he 
added,  and  he  smiled  boyishly.  "My  name's  Ogden 
— Bobby  Ogden.  Glad  to  become  acquainted  with 
you,  I'm  sure.  And  now,  if  you  will  follow  on,  I'll 
do  my  best  for  you.  Would  you  mind  walking  on 
your  toes?  You  see,  there  are  just  two  things  most 
calculated  to  get  Flash's  goat.  One  of  Tem's  mar 
ring  up  his  floor  with  heavy  boots,  and  the  other  is 
butting  in  when  he's  playing  dominoes.  You  couldn't 
have  known  it,  of  course,  but  he  can't  stand  for  either 
of  them.  And  together  I  am  afraid  they  have  got 
you  in  pretty  bad.  You're  sure  you  can't  swallow 
your  pride,  and  just  beat  it  quietly  while  the  chance 
is  nice  and  handy?  Maybe  you  ought  to  think  of 
your  family — no?" 

Denny's  smile  widened.  He  shook  his  head  in  re 
fusal.  He  knew  he  was  going  to  like  Ogden — like 
him  for  the  same  reason  that  he  had  liked  the  fat, 
brown-clad  newspaper  man  in  Boltonwood — because 
of  the  charming  equality  of  his  attitude  and  the  frank 
ness  in  his  eyes. 

"No,"  he  decided,  "I— I'm  afraid  I  can't.  I  didn't 
mean  to  stir  him  up  so,  either,  only — only  I  thought, 
just  for  a  minute  or  two,  that  he  was  laughing  at  me. 
I  think  I'd  rather  stay  and  see  it  out.  But  you  mustn't 
worry  about  me — I  wouldn't  if  I  were  you." 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  181 

Again  Ogden  shrugged  resignedly.  On  tiptoe  Den 
ny  followed  him  to  the  locker-rooms  in  the  rear,  and 
at  a  word  of  direction  began  to  remove  his  clothes. 
While  he  plunged  head-foremost  into  a  bin  in  search 
for  a  pair  of  white  trunks,  Ogden  kept  up  a  steady 
stream  of  advice  calculated  to  save  the  other  at 
least  a  small  percentage  of  punishment. 

"Sutton's  big,"  he  exclaimed  jerkily,  head  out  of 
sight,  "but  he  isn't  fast  on  his  feet.  That's  why  they 
call  him  Boots.  He  steps  around  as  though  he  had 
on  waders — hip-high  ones.  But  he's  lightning  hit 
ting  from  close  in — in-fighting  they  call  it — where 
most  big  fighters  don't  shine.  That's  because  he's 
had  Flash's  coaching.  You  want  to  keep  away  from 
him — keep  him  at  arm's  length,  and  maybe  he  won't 
do  too  much  harm.  I — I'd  let  him  do  all  the  leading, 
if  I  were  you,  and — and  kind  of  run  ahead  of  him." 
The  voice  came  half-smothered  from  the  cluttered  bin 
of  equipment.  "That  isn't  running  away  from  him 
because  you're  afraid,  you  understand.  It's  just  play 
ing  him  to  tire  him  out,  you  know!" 

It  was  silent  for  a  moment  while  Bobby  Ogden 
burrowed  for  the  necessary  canvas  shoes.  Then  a 
hushed  laugh  broke  that  quiet  and  brought  the 
latter  bolt  upright.  With  the  trunks  in  one  hand 
and  the  rubber-soled  slippers  in  the  other,  Ogden 
stood  and  stared,  only  half  understanding  that  the 
big  boy  before  him  was  laughing  at  him  for  his 


1 82  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

solicitude  and  trying  to  reassure  him  with  that 
same  mirth. 

"Funny,  is  it?"  he  snorted  aggrievedly.  "So  very 
— very — funny?  Well,  I  only  hope  you'll  be  able 
to  laugh  that  way  again — say  even  in  a  month  or 
two!" 

"I  wasn't  laughing  at  you,"  Young  Denny  told  him 
soberly.  "I — I  was  just  thinking  how  strange  it 
seemed  to  have  somebody  worried  over  me — worried 
because  they  were  afraid  I  might  get  hurt.  Most 
little  mix-ups  I've  gone  into  have  worried  folks — lest 
I  wouldn't." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

WHEN  he  had  first  looked  up  from  the  green- 
topped  table  and  seen  him  standing  there  in 
the  entrance  of  the  gymnasium  Ogden  had 
only  sensed  the  bigness  of  Denny  Bolton's  body — 
only  vaguely  felt  the  promise  which  his  smooth  black 
suit  concealed.  It  was  the  face  that  had  interested 
him  most  at  that  moment,  and  yet  he  had  not  even 
noticed  the  half  healed  cut  that  ran  almost  to  the  point 
of  the  chin.  Young  Denny's  grave  explanation  of  his 
quiet  mirth  caused  him  to  look  closer — made  him 
really  wonder  now  what  had  been  its  cause.  There 
was  a  frankly  inquisitive  question  half-formed  behind 
his  lips,  but  when  he  turned  to  find  Denny  sitting 
stripped  to  the  waist,  waiting  for  the  garments  which 
he  held  in  his  hands,  he  merely  stood  and  stared. 
Bobby  Ogden  had  seen  many  men  stripped  for  the 
ring.  It  took  more  than  an  ordinary  man  to  make 
him  look  even  once — but  he  could  not  take  his  eyes  off 
this  boy  before  him.  Once  he  whistled  softly  between 
his  teeth  in  unconcealed  amazement;  once  he  walked 
entirely  around  him,  exclaiming  softly  to  himself. 
Then  he  remembered. 

"Here,    get    into    these,"    he    ordered    abruptly, 


1 84  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

and  thrust  the  things  into  Denny's  waiting  hands. 

While  Denny  was  obeying  he  continued  to  circle 
and  to  admire  critically. 

"Man — man!"  he  murmured.  "But  you're  sure 
put  together  right!"  He  was  silent  for  a  moment 
while  he  punched  back  and  shoulders  with  a  search 
ing  thumb.  "Silk  and  steel,"  he  went  on  to  himself. 
"And  not  a  lump — not  a  single  knot !  Oh,  if  you  only 
knew  how  to  use  it;  if  you  only  knew  the  moves, 
wouldn't  we  give  Flash  the  heart-break  of  his  life! 
Now  wouldn't  we?" 

Denny  finished  lacing  his  flat  shoes  and  stood 
erect,  and  even  Ogden's  chattering  tongue  was  silent. 
It  was  very  easy  now  to  see  why  that  big  body  had 
seemed  shoulder-heavy.  From  the  shoulder  points 
the  lines  ran  unbroken,  almost  wedgelike,  to  his  an 
kles.  He  was  flat  and  slim  in  the  waist  as  any  strip 
ling  might  have  been.  All  hint  of  bulkiness  was 
gone.  He  seemed  almost  slender,  until  one  started  to 
analyze  each  dimension  singly,  such  as  the  breadth 
of  his  back,  or  the  depth  of  his  chest.  Then  one  real 
ized  that  it  was  only  the  slimness  of  fine-drawn  an 
kles,  the  swelling  smoothness  of  hidden  sinews  which 
created  that  impression.  And  Ogden's  quick  eye 
caught  that  instantly. 

"I'd  have  said  one-ninety,"  he  stated  ju 
dicially.  "At  least  as  much  as  that,  or  a 
shade  better,  before  you  undressed.  Now  I'd 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  185 

put    it    under — what    do    you    weigh,     anyhow?" 

He  slid  the  weight  over  the  bar  after  Young  Denny 
had  stepped  upon  the  white  scales. 

"One  sixty-five — sixty-eight — seventy,  and  a  trifle 
over,"  he  finished.  "Man,  but  you're  built  for  speed  !• 
You  ought  to  be  lightning  fast." 

At  that  instant  the  boy  called  Legs  opened  the 
door  and  thrust  in  his  head. 

"The  chief  says  if  you're  coming  at  all,"  he  droned 
apathetically,  "you  might  just  as  well  come 
now." 

Ogden  threw  a  long  bathrobe  over  his  charge's 
shoulders  as  the  latter  started  forward.  He  wanted 
to  note  the  effect  which  the  sudden  display  of  that 
pair  of  shoulders  and  set  of  back  muscles  would  have 
upon  Flash  Hogarty's  temper.  As  they  crossed  the 
long  room  Denny's  grave  lack  of  concern  was  made 
to  seem  almost  stolid  in  contrast  with  the  heliotrope 
silk-shirted  boy's  excessive  nervousness. 

"Now  remember  what  I  told  you,"  he  whispered 
hoarsely.  "Keep  away  from  him — keep  away  and 
let  him  do  the  rushing — for  he's  got  a  punch  that's 
sudden  death!  You  can  tire  him  out.  He's  old  and 
his  wind  is  gone." 

The  brass  rods  had  been  set  up  in  their  sockets  in 
the  floor  and  the  space  which  they  outlined  in  the 
middle  of  the  room  roped  off  and  carpeted  with  a 
square  of  hard,  brown  canvas.  The  man  called  Boots 


1 86  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

Sutton  was  already  in  his  corner,  waiting,  and  his  at 
titude  toward  the  whole  affair  was  very  patently 
that  of  sheer  boredom.  He  barely  lifted  his  eyes 
as  Young  Denny  crawled  through  the  ropes  at  the 
opposite  corner,  behind  the  officiously  fluttering  Og- 
den.  This  was  merely  part  of  his  every  day's  work; 
he  spent  hours  each  week  either  instructing  frankly 
confessed  amateurs  or  discouraging  too-confident, 
would-be  professionals.  It  was  only  because  of  the 
strangely  venomous  harshness  with  which  Hogarty 
had  given  him  his  orders  while  he  was  himself  dress 
ing  that  he  vouchsafed  Denny  even  that  one  glance. 

"I  want  you  to  get  him,"  Hogarty  snarled.  "I 
want  you  to  get  him  right  from  the  jump — and  get 
him! — and  keep  on  getting  him!  Either  make  him 
squeal — make  him  quit — or  beat  him  to  death  I" 

But  if  Sutton  failed  to  note  the  play  of  those  mus 
cles  that  bunched  and  quivered  and  ran  like  live 
things  beneath  the  skin  of  the  boy's  back,  when  Bobby 
Ogden  threw  off  the  enveloping  wrap  with  an  osten 
tatious  flourish  and  knelt  to  lace  on  his  gloves,  that 
disclosure  was  not  entirely  lost  upon  Hogarty. 
Watching  from  the  corners  of  his  eyes,  Bobby  saw 
him  scowl  and  chew  his  lip  as  his  head  came  forward 
a  little.  And  immediately  he  turned  to  speak  again 
in  a  whisper  to  Boots,  squatting  nonchalantly  in  his 
corner. 

"There's  no  need,  mind,  of  being  careless,"  he 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  187 

cautioned.  "He — he  might  have  a  punch,  you  know, 
at  that.  Some  of  'em  do — a  lucky  one  once  in  a 
while.  Just  watch  him  a  trifle — and  hand  it  to  him 
good!" 

Sutton  nodded  and  rose  to  his  feet.  Watch  in 
hand,  Hogarty  vaulted  the  ropes,  and  Ogden,  with 
a  last  whispered  admonition,  bundled  up  the  bath 
robe  and  scuttled  from  the  ring. 

At  that  moment  Young  Denny's  bulkily  slender 
body  was  even  more  deceptive.  Sutton,  even  when 
trained  to  his  finest,  would  have  outweighed  him 
twenty  pounds.  Now  that  margin  was  nearer  thirty, 
and  added  to  that,  he  was  inches  less  in  height.  He 
was  shorter  of  neck,  blocky,  built  close  to  the  ground. 
And  the  span  of  his  ankle  was  nearly  as  great  as 
that  of  Denny's  knee. 

Comparing  them  with  detail-hungry  eyes,  Bobby 
Ogden  saw,  however,  that  from  the  waist  up  the  boy's 
clean,  swelling  body  totally  shadowed  the  other's 
knotted  bulk;  he  noted  that,  with  arm  outstretched, 
heel  of  glove  against  Sutton's  chin,  Denny's  reach 
was  more  than,  great  enough  to  hold  the  other  away 
from  him.  Hard  on  the  heels  of  that  thought  came 
the  realization  that  that  was  a  fine  point  of  the  game 
utterly  outside  of  the  boy's  knowledge. 

It  was  quiet — oddly,  peacefully  quiet  for  a  second 
— in  that  long  room.  Then  in  obedience  to  a  nod 
from  Hogarty  the  lanky  boy  called  Legs  languidly 


1 88  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

touched  a  bell,  and  all  that  peaceful  silence  was  shat 
tered  to  bits.  Ogden  shouted  aloud,  without  know 
ing  it,  a  shrill,  dismayed  cry  of  warning,  as  Sutton 
catapulted  from  his  corner;  he  shouted  and  shut  his 
eyes  and  winced  as  if  that  rushing  attack  had  been 
launched  at  himself.  But  he  opened  them  again — 
opened  them  at  the  sound  of  a  sickening  smash  of 
glove  against  flesh — to  see  Denny  blink  both 
eyes  as  his  whole  body  rebounded  from  that 
blow. 

Ogden  waited,  forgetting  to  breathe,  for  the  boy 
to  go  down;  he  waited  to  see  his  knees  weaken  and 
his  shoulders  slump  forward.  But  instead  of  shrivel 
ing  before  that  pile-driver  swing,  he  realized  that 
Denny  somehow  was  weathering  the  storm  of  blows 
that  followed  it;  that  somehow  he  had  managed  to 
keep  his  feet  and  was  backing  away,  trying  to  follow 
faithfully  his  instructions. 

Just  as  Ogden  had  pictured  it  would  be,  it  all  hap 
pened.  Foot  by  foot  Sutton  drove  him  around  the 
ring.  There  was  no  opening  for  Denny  to  return  a 
blow — nothing  but  a  maze  of  battering  fists  to  be 
blocked  and  ducked  and  covered.  Even  the  speed, 
the  natural  speed  of  lithe  muscles  for  which  Bobby 
had  hoped,  and  hopelessly  expected,  was  entirely 
lacking  in  every  motion.  Heavy-footed,  ponderous, 
Young  Denny  gave  way  before  that  attack.  Sutton, 
always  reputed  slow,  was  terribly,  brutally  swift  of 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  189 

movement  in  comparison  with  the  boy's  faltering  un 
certainty. 

Twice  and  a  third  time  in  the  first  minute  of  fight 
ing  Boots  feinted  aside  his  guard  with  what  seemed 
childish  ease  and  then  drove  his  glove  against  the 
other's  unprotected  face.  Time  after  time  he  repeat 
ed  the  blow,  and  at  each  sickening  smack  that  an 
swered  the  crash  of  leather  against  flesh  Bobby  Ogden 
gasped  aloud  and  marveled.  For  at  each  jolt  Denny 
merely  blinked  his  eyes  as  he  recoiled — blinked,  and 
retreated  a  little  more  slowly  than  before. 

At  the  bell  Ogden  was  through  the  ropes  and 
dragging  him  to  his  corner.  A  little  trickle  of  blood 
was  gathering  on  the  point  of  Denny's  chin  where  the 
glove  had  opened  afresh  the  half-healed  cut  on  his 
cheek;  he  was  shaking  his  head  as  he  waved  aside 
the  wet  towel  in  Ogden's  hands. 

"Man,  but  you're  some  bear  for  punishment!"  Og 
den  chattered,  strangely  weak  himself  beneath  his 
belt.  "If  you  only  had  a  little  speed — just  a  little ! 
Why,  he  sent  over  a  dozen  to  your  chin  that  ought 
to  have  laid  you  away.  But  you're  playing  him  right ! 
You're  working  him,  and  if  you  can  manage  to  hang 
on  you'll  get  him  in  the  end.  Just  keep  away — keep 
away  and  let  him  wear  himself  out.  But — oh,  if  you 
did  have  it.  Just  one  real  punch!" 

Young  Denny  continued  to  shake  his  head — con 
tinued  to  shake  it  doggedly. 


1 90  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

"Do — do  you  mean  that  that  is  as  hard  as  he  is 
likely  to  hit?"  he  queried  slowly.  "Do  you  mean — 
he  was  really  trying — hard?" 

Ogden  stopped  urging  the  wet  towel  upon  him  and 
stood  and  gazed  at  him  with  something  close  akin 
to  awe  in  his  eyes. 

"Hard!"  he  echoed  in  a  small  voice.  "Hard! 
How  hard  do  you  expect  a  man  to  hit?" 

"Then  your  plan  was  wrong,"  Young  Denny  told 
him.  "Of  course,"  he  hastened  to  soften  that  abrupt 
statement,  "of  course  it  would  work  all  right,  only — 
only  I'm  not  much  good  at  that  kind  of  fancy  work. 
I — I  just  have  to  wade  right  in,  when  I  want  to  do 
any  damage,  because  I'm  slow  getting  away  from  a 
man.  I  can't  punch — not  hard — when  I'm  backing 
off.  But  now  I  aim  to  show  you  how  hard  I  expect  a 
man  to  hit,  just  as  soon  as  they  ring  that  bell!" 

Hogarty  was  leaning  over  Sutton  in  the  opposite 
corner,  frowning  and  talking  rapidly. 

"What's  the  matter,  Boots?"  he  demanded  anx 
iously.  "Haven't  lost  your  kick,  have  you?" 

Sutton  gazed  contemplatively  down  at  his  gloved 
hands  and  up  again  into  his  employer's  face. 

"Who'd  you  say  that  guy  was?"  he  countered. 
"Where's  he  blowed  in  from — again?" 

"A  rube — down  from  the  hills  he  called  it.  Just 
some  come-on,"  Hogarty  repeated  his  former  infor 
mation,  "who  thinks  because  he's  cleaned  up  main 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  191 

street  and  licked  the  village  blacksmith  that  he's  a 
world-beater.  Why,  Boots?  You  aren't  worried, 
are  you?" 

The  contemplative  gleam  in  Button's  eyes  deepened. 

"Because,"  he  stated  thoughtfully,  "just  because 
there's  some  mistake — or — or  he's  made  of  brass. 
I — I  hit  him  pretty  hard,  Flash — and  do  you  know 
what  he  done?  Well,  he  blinked.  He — blinked — 
at — me.  I  never  hit  any  man  harder." 

Hogarty's  face  had  lost  a  little  of  its  inscrutability. 
He  flashed  one  sharp  glance  across  at  Young  Denny 
in  the  other  corner  as  he  stepped  back  out  of  the 
ring  and  his  frown  deepened  a  little  after  that  brief 
scrutiny.  For  the  boy's  body,  squatting  there,  crouched 
waiting  for  the  bell,  was  taut  in  every  sinew,  quiver 
ing  with  eagerness. 

"You  just  failed  to  place  'em  right,  I  guess,"  he 
reassured  Boots.  "Take  a  little  more  time,  and  get 
him  flush  on  the  bone.  You  can  slow  up  a  little. 
He  isn't  even  fast  enough  to  run  away  from  you." 

Again  Hogarty  nodded  to  the  boy  called  Legs,  and 
again  the  gong  rang.  Five  minutes  earlier  it  would 
have  been  hard  for  Bobby  Ogden  to  have  explained 
just  what  it  was  which  he  had  half  dreamed  might 
lurk  in  those  rippling  muscles  that  bunched  and  ran 
beneath  Denny's  white  skin.  For  want  of  a  better 
name  he  had  named  it  speed.  And  now,  at  the  tap  of 
the  bell,  he  watched  and  recognized. 


192  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

Swift  as  was  Sutton's  savage  rush  across  the  can 
vas,  he  had  hardly  left  his  corner  in  the  ropes  before 
Young  Denny  was  upon  him.  The  boy  lifted  and 
sprang  and  dropped  cat- footed  in  the  middle  of  the 
ring,  hunched  of  shoulder  and  bent  of  knee  to  meet 
the  shocking  impact.  It  was  bewilderingly  rapid — 
terrifyingly  effortless — this  explosive,  spontaneous 
answer  of  every  muscle  to  the  call  of  the  brain.  Just 
as  before,  Sutton  feinted  and  saw  his  opening  and 
swung.  Young  Denny  knew  only  one  best  way  to 
fight;  he  knew  only  that  he  had  to  take  a  blow  in 
order  to  give  one,  and  Sutton's  fist  shot  home  against 
his  unprotected  chin.  He  blinked  with  the  shock, 
just  as  he  had  blinked  before,  and  swayed  back  a 
little.  Sutton  had  swung  hard — he  had  swung  from 
his  heels — and  he  was  still  following  that  blow 
through  when  Denny  snapped  forward  again. 

It  wasn't  a  long  swing,  but  it  was  wickedly  quick. 
From  the  waist  it  started,  a  short,  vicious  jolt  that 
carried  all  the  boy's  weight  behind  it,  and  the  instant 
that  Denny  whipped  it  over  Sutton's  chin  seemed  to 
come  out  to  meet  it — seemed  almost  to  lift  to  receive 
it.  And  then,  as  his  head  leaped  back,  even  before 
his  body  had  lifted  from  the  floor,  the  boy's  other 
hand  drove  across  and  set  him  spinning  in  the  air 
as  he  fell.  He  went  down  sideways,  a  long,  crashing 
fall  that  dropped  him  limp  in  the  corner  which  he 
had  just  left. 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  1 93 

For  a  moment  Denny  crouched  waiting  for  him  to 
rise.  Then  he  realized  that  Sutton  would  not  rise 
again — not  for  a  time.  He  saw  Hogarty  leap  over 
the  ropes  and  kneel — saw  the  boy  Legs  rush  across 
with  ammonia  and  water — and  he  understood.  Og- 
den  was  at  his  side,  pounding  him  upon  the  shoulder 
and  shrieking  in  his  ear.  His  eyes  lifted  from  the 
face  of  the  fallen  man  to  that  of  the  heliotrope  silk- 
shirted  person  beside  him. 

"He's  not  really  badly  hurt,  is  he?'  he  inquired 
slowly.  "I — I  didn't  hit  him — too  hard?" 

Ogden  ceased  for  a  moment  thumping  him  on  the 
back. 

"Hurt!"  he  yelped.  "Didn't  hit  him  too  hard! 
Why,  man,  he's  stiff,  right  now.  He's  ready  for  the 
coroner !  Gad — and  I  was  pitying  you — I  was " 

Young  Denny  shook  him  off  and  crossed  and  knelt 
beside  the  kneeling  Hogarty.  And  at  that  moment 
Sutton  opened  his  eyes  again  and  stared  dully  into 
the  ex-lightweight's  face.  After  a  time  recognition 
began  to  dawn  in  that  gaze — understanding — com 
prehension.  Once  it  shifted  to  Denny,  and  then  came 
back  again.  He  made  several  futile  efforts  before  he 
could  make  his  lips  frame  the  words. 

Then,  "Amateur,"  he  muttered,  and  he  managed 
to  rip  one  glove  from  a  limp  hand  and  hurl  it  from 
him  as  he  struggled  to  sit  erect.  "Amateur — hell  I 
A-a-a-h,  Flash,  what're  you  tryin'  to  hand  me?" 


CHAPTER  XIV 

DENNY  had  begun  to  get  back  into  his  clothes, 
pausing  now  and  then  to  dabble  tentatively 
at  the  freshly  broken  bruise  with  the  wet 
towel  which  Ogden  had  at  last  forced  him  to  accept, 
when   the   door  of  the   dressing-room   opened,    and 
Hogarty  stepped  briskly  inside  and  closed  the  door 
behind  him. 

The  ex-lightweight  ignored  entirely  the  covertly 
delighted  grin  that  lit  up  Bobby  Ogden's  features 
at  his  appearance.  His  own  too-pale,  too-thin  lips 
were  curved  in  a  ghost  of  a  smile;  his  face  had  lost 
all  its  dangerous  tautness,  but  the  greatest  change  of 
all  lay  there  in  his  eyes.  Their  flaring  antagonism 
had  burnt  itself  out.  And  when  Hogarty  spoke  it 
was  once  more  in  his  smoothly  perfect,  delightfully 
measured,  best  professor-of-English  style,  for  all 
that  his  opening  remark  was  couched  in  the  ver 
nacular. 

"Mr.  Bolton,"  he  began  to  the  boy  sitting  quiet 
before  him,  "it  looks  as  though  we  would  have  to 
hand  it  to  you — which  I  earnestly  desire  you  to  be 
lieve  I  am  now  doing,  with  both  hands.  It  may 
eventually  prove  that  I  lost  a  most  valuable  assistant 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  195 

through  this  morning's  little  flurry.  I  am  not 
quite  certain  yet  as  to  that  as  Boots  is  not  sufficiently 
himself  to  give  the  matter  judicious  consideration. 

"He  still  thinks  I  crossed  him  for  the  entertain 
ment's  sake — which  is  of  little  immediate  importance. 
What  I  did  come  in  for  was  to  listen  to  anything  at 
all  that  you  may  have  to  tell  me.  You'll  admit,  of 
course,  that  while  your  explanation  as  to  your  er 
rand  was  strictly  to  the  point,  it  was  scarcely  compre 
hensive.  My  own  unfortunate  temper  was,  no  doubt, 
largely  the  cause  of  your  brevity." 

He  hesitated  a  moment,  clearing  his  throat  and 
gazing  blankly  at  the  grinning  Ogden. 

"As  Ogden  here  has  of  course  told  you,  I'm — well, 
rather  touchy  when  interrupted  at  my  favorite  pas 
time,  and  especially  so  when  I  am  trying  to  get  a 
few  minutes  relaxation  with  a  pin-headed  person  who 
insists  upon  playing  without  watching  the  board. 

"But  you  spoke  of  wanting  an  opportunity  of — er 
— entering  the  game  professionally.  I'm  not  admit 
ting  you're  a  world-beater,  understand — or  anything 
like  that!  You've  just  succeeded  in  putting  away  a 
man  who  was  as  formidable  as  the  best  of  them, 
five  years  ago.  And  five  years  isn't  today,  by  any 
means.  I've  been  looking  for  a  real  possibility  to 
appear  for  so  long  that  I've  grown  exceedingly  sen 
sitive  at  each  fresh  failure.  And  yet — and  yet,  if 
you  did  have  the  stuff !" 


196  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

Again  he  stopped  and  Denny,  watching,  saw  the 
proprietor's  face  glow  suddenly  with  a  savage  sort 
of  exultation.  His  eyes,  half-veiled  behind  drooping 
lids  that  twitched  a  little,  went  unseeingly  over  the 
boy's  head  as  though  they  were  visualizing  a  triumph 
so  long  anticipated  that  it  had  become  almost  a  lost 
hope.  Again  that  promise  of  something  ominous 
blackened  the  pupils — something  totally  dangerous 
that  harmonized  perfectly  with  the  snarl  upon  his 
lips. 

Hogarty's  whole  attitude  was  that  of  a  man  who 
wanted  to  believe  and  yet  who,  because  he  knew 
that  the  very  measure  of  his  eagerness  made  him 
doubly  easy  to  convince,  had  resolved  not  to  let  him 
self  accept  one  spurious  proof.  And  all  his  skepti 
cism  was  shot  through  and  through  with  hate — a 
deadly,  patient  sort  of  hatred  for  someone  which  was 
as  easy  to  see  as  it  was  hard  for  the  big-shouldered 
boy  to  understand. 

There  was  craft  in  the  ex-lightweight's  bearing — 
a  gentleness  almost  stealthy  when  he  leaned  forward 
a  little,  as  if  he  feared  that  the  first  abrupt  move  or 
word  on  his  part  would  frighten  away  that  timid 
hope. 

"I  believe  that  you  said  some  one  sent  you.  You 
— you  did  not  mention  the  name?" 

Denny  leaned  over  and  picked  up  his  coat  from  a 
chair  beside  the  bench,  searching  the  pockets  until 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  197 

he  found  the  card  which  the  plump,  brown-clad  news 
paper  man  had  given  him.  Without  a  word  he 
reached  out  and  put  it  in  Hogarty's  hands. 

It  bore  Jesse  Hogarty's  Fourteenth  Street  address 
across  its  face.  Hogarty  turned  it  over. 

"Introducing  the  Pilgrim,"  ran  the  caption  in  the 
cramped  Handwriting  of  Chub  Morehouse's  stubby 
fingers.  And,  beneath,  that  succinct  sentence  which 
was  not  so  cryptic  after  all: 

"Some  of  them  may  have  science,  and  some  of  them 
may  have  speed,  but  after  all  it's  the  man  who  can 
take  punishment  who  gets  the  final  decision.  Call  me 
up,  if  this  ever  comes  to  hand." 

Very  deliberately  Hogarty  deciphered  the  words, 
lifted  a  vaguely  puzzled  face  to  Young  Denny,  who 
waited  immobile — and  then  returned  again  to  the 
card.  He  even  nodded  once  in  thorough  apprecia 
tion  of  the  title  which  Morehouse  had  given  the  boy; 
he  smiled  faintly  as  he  remembered  Denny  as  he  had 
stood  there  in  the  entrance  of  the  big  room,  a  short 
while  before,  and  realized  how  apt  the  phrase  was. 
Then  he  began  to  whistle,  a  shrill,  faint,  monoton 
ous  measure,  the  calculating  glitter  in  his  eyes  grow 
ing  more  and  more  brilliant. 

"So!"  he  murmured  thoughtfully.     "So-o-o  !" 

And  then,  to  Denny: 

"Was  there — did  he  make  any  comment  in  partic 
ular,  when  he  gave  you  this?" 


198  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

The  boy's  eyes  twinkled. 

"He — made  several,"  he  answered.  "He  said 
ithat  there  was  a  man  at  that  address — meaning  you 
— that  would  fall  on  my  neck  and  weep,  if  I  hap 
pened  to  have  the  stuff.  And  he  warned  me,  too,  not 
to  think  that  Jed  The  Red  fought  like  a  school  boy, 
just  because  he  was  a  second-rater — because  he  didn't, 
nothing  like  that !" 

Hogarty  laughed  aloud.  That  sudden,  staccato 
chuckle  was  almost  startling  coming  from  his  pale 
lips.  It  hushed  just  as  quickly  as  it  had  begun. 

"Jed  The  Red,  eh?"  he  reiterated  softly,  and  he 
began  tapping  the  card  with  his  fingertips.  "I  see, 
or  at  least  I  am  commencing  to  get  a  glimmer  of  those 
possibilities  which  Mr.  Morehouse  may  have  had 
in  mind.  And  now  I  think  the  one  best  thing  to  do 
would  be  to  call  him  up,  as  he  has  here  requested.  As 
soon  as  you  finish  dressing  Ogden  here  will  show 
you  the  rest  of  the  works,  if  you'd  care  to  look  around 
-a  little.  It  is  entirely  likely  that  we  shall  want  to 
talk  with  you  directly. 

He  wheeled  abruptly  toward  Ogden  who  had  been 
listening  without  a  word,  the  broad  grin  never  leav 
ing  his  lips.  It  was  the  silk-shlrted  boy  to  whom  Ho 
garty  addressed  the  rest  of  that  sentence. 

"And  you,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  shed  with 
astounding  completeness  all  its  syllabled  nicety.  "You 
try  to  make  yourself  useful  as  well  as  pestelential. 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  199 

Get  him  a  bit  of  adhesive  for  that  cut.  It  looks  as 
bad  as  though  a  horse  had  kicked  him  there. 

"And  the  rest  of  your  mob  will  be  swarming  in 
here  in  a  few  minutes,  too.  You  can  tell  them  that 
Sutton  is — er — indisposed  this  morning,  and  that 
they'll  have  to  play  by  themselves." 

He  nodded  briefly  to  Denny  and  opened  the  door. 
But  he  stopped  again  before  he  passed  out. 

"There's  one  other  question,  Mr.  Bolton,"  he  said 
over  his  shoulder.  "And  please  believe  that  I  am 
not  usually  so  inquisitive.  But  I'm  more  than  a  little 
curious  to  know  why  you  did  not  present  this  card 
first — and  go  through  the  little  informal  examination 
I  arranged  for  you  afterward?  It  would  have  in 
sured  you  a  far  different  reception.  Was  there  any 
special  reason,  or  did  you  just  overlook  it?" 

Denny  dabbed  again  at  the  red  drop  on  his  chin. 

"No,  I  didn't  exactly  forget  it,"  he  stated  pon 
derously.  "But,  you  see,  I  kind  o'f  thought  if  I  just 
told  you  first  that  I  wanted  to  see  if  I  had  any  chance, 

you  wouldn't  make  any  allowances  for  me  because 
j »» 

Hogarty's  second  nod  which  cut  him  short  was 
the  quintessence  of  crisp  satisfaction. 

"I  understand,"  he  cut  in.  "Perfectly!  And  quite 
right — quite  right!" 

The  ex-lightweight  proprietor  was  sitting  with  his 
chin  clasped  in  both  palms,  still  staring  at  the  half 


200  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

facetious  words  of  introduction  which  the  plump  news 
paper  man  had  penciled  across  that  card,  when  the 
door  of  the  small  office  in  the  front  of  the  gymnasium 
was  pushed  open  a  crack,  some  scant  fifteen  minutes 
after  his  peremptory  summons  had  gone  out  over  the 
wire,  and  made  him  lift  his  head. 

His  eyes  were  filmed  with  a  preoccupation  too  pro 
found  to  be  dispelled  by  the  mock  anxiety  upon  the 
chubby  round  countenance  which  Morehouse  thrust 
through  that  small  aperture  between  door  and  frame, 
or  his  excessively  overdone  caution  as  he  swung  the 
door  wider  and  tiptoed  over  the  threshold,  to  stand 
and  point  a  rigidly  stubby  finger  behind  him  at  the 
trail  of  nail  prints  which  Young  Denny's  shoes  had 
left  across  the  glistening  wax  an  hour  or  so  earlier. 

"Jesse,"  he  whispered  hoarsely,  "some  one  has 
perpetrated  here  upon  the  sacred  sheen  of  your  floor 
a  dastardly  outrage !  I  merely  want  you  to  note,  be 
fore  you  start  running  the  guilty  one  to  earth,  that 
I  am  making  my  entrance  entirely  in  accordance  with 
your  oft-reiterated  instructions.  I  am  not  he!" 

For  all  the  change  which  it  brought  about  in  Ho- 
garty's  face  that  greeting  might  have  been  left  un 
spoken.  He  vouchsafed  the  fat  man's  elaborate  pan 
tomime  not  so  much  as  the  shadow  of  a  smile,  nodded 
once,  thoughtfully,  and  let  his  eyes  fall  again  to  the 
card  between  his  elbows  on  the  table-top. 

"Come  in,  Chub,"  he  invited  shortly.    "Come  in." 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  2or 

And  as  a  clamor  of  many  voices  in  the  outer  entrance 
heralded  the  arrival  of  the  rest  of  Ogden's  crowd: 
"Here  comes  the  mob  now.  Come  in  and  close  the 
door." 

Morehouse,  still  from  head  to  toe  a  symphony  in 
many-toned  browns,  shed  every  shred  of  his  face- 
tiousness  at  Hogarty's  crisply  repeated  invitation.  He 
closed  the  door  and  snapped  the  catch  that  made  it 
fast  before  he  crossed,  without  a  word,  and  drew  a 
chair  up  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  desk. 

"Your  hurry  call  just  caught  me  as  I  was  leaving 
for  lunch,"  he  explained  then.  "And  I  made  pretty 
fair  time  getting  down  here,  too.  What's  the  dark 
secret?" 

The  black-clad  proprietor  lifted  his  lean  jaw  from 
his  hands  and  gazed  long  and  steadily  into  the  news 
paper  man's  eyes,  picked  up  the  bit  of  pasteboard 
which  bore  the  latter's  own  name  across  its  front  and 
flipped  it  silently  across  the  table  to  him.  Morehouse 
took  it  up  gingerly  and  read  it — reversed  it  and  read 
again. 

"Nice  little  touch,  that,"  he  averred  finally.  "Rath 
er  neat  and  tasty,  if  I  do  say  it  myself.  'Introducing 
The  Pilgrim !'  Hum-m-m.  You  can't  quite  appre 
ciate  it  of  course,  but — oh,  Flash,  I  wish  you  could 
have  seen  that  big  boy  standing  there  in  the  door 
of  that  little  backwoods  tavern,  just  as  I  saw  him, 
about  a  week  ago!  Why,  he — he  was " 


202  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

"He's  come  1"  Hogarty  cut  in  briefly. 

Morehouse's  chin  dropped.  He  sat  with  mouth 
agape. 

"Huh?"  he  grunted.     "He's— he's  come  where?" 

Where  his  facetiousness  had  failed  him  More- 
house's  round-eyed  astonishment,  a  little  tinged  with 
panic,  was  more  than  successful.  Hogarty  permitted 
himself  to  smile  a  trifle — his  queer,  strained  smile. 

"He  is  here,"  he  repeated  gravely,  and  the  words 
were  couched  in  his  choicest  accents.  "He  came  in, 
perhaps,  an  hour  ago.  That  is  his  monogramed 
trail  across  the  floor  which  caught  your  eye.  Oh,  he's 
here — don't  doubt  that!  I'll  give  you  a  little  re 
view  of  the  manner  of  his  coming,  after  you  tell  me 
how  you  ever  happened  to  send  him — why  you  gave 
him  that  card?  What's  the  answer  to  it,  Chub?" 

That  same  light  of  savage  hope  and  cruelly  cal 
culating  enmity,  all  so  strangely  mixed  with  a  per 
sistent  doubt,  which  Young  Denny  had  seen  flare  up 
in  the  ex-lightweight's  eyes  a  little  while  before,  back 
in  the  dressing-room,  began  to  creep  once  more  across 
Hogarty's  face. 

"You  know  how  long  I've  been  waiting  for  one 
to  come  along,  Chub,"  he  went  on,  almost  hoarsely. 
"You  know  how  I've  looked  for  the  man  who  could 
do  what  none  of  the  others  have  done  yet,  even  though 
he  is  only  a  second-rater.  Twice  I  thought  I  had  a 
newcomer  who  could  put  The  Red  away — and  put 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  203 

him  away  for  keeps — and  I  just  fooled  myself  be 
cause  I  was  so  anxious  to  believe.  I've  grown  a  trifle 
wary,  Chub,  just  a  trifle !  Now,  I'd  like  to  hear  you 
talk!" 

Morehouse  sat  and  fingered  that  card  for  a  long 
time  in  absolute  silence — a  silence  that  was  heavy 
with  embarrassment  on  his  part.  He  understood, 
without  need  of  explanation,  for  whom  that  chill 
hatred  glowed  in  the  spare  ex-lightweight's  eyes — 
knew  the  full  reason  for  it.  And  because  he  knew 
Hogarty,  too,  as  few  men  had  ever  come  to  know 
him,  he  had  often  assured  himself  that  he  was  thank 
ful  not  to  be  the  man  who  had  earned  it. 

That  knowledge  had  been  very  vividly  present 
when,  a  few  days  before,  on  the  platform  of  the 
Boltonwood  station,  he  had  requested  Denny  Bolton 
to  give  him  back  his  card  for  a  moment,  after  listen 
ing  to  the  boy's  grave  explanation  of  the  raw  wound 
across  his  cheek,  and  on  a  quite  momentary  impulse 
written  across  its  back  that  short  sentence  which  was 
so  meaty  with  meaning.  Every  detail  of  Hogarty's 
country-wide  search  for  a  man  who  could  whip  Jed 
The  Red  was  an  open  secret,  so  far  as  he  was  con 
cerned;  he  was  familiar  with  all  the  bitterness  of 
every  fresh  disappointment,  but  he  had  never  seen 
Hogarty's  face  so  alive  with  exultant  hope  as  it  was 
at  that  moment. 

And  Morehouse  was  embarrassed  and  sorry,  and 


204  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

ashamed,  too,  of  what  seemed  now  must  have  been 
a  weak  surrender  to  an  impulse  which,  after  all,  could 
have  been  born  of  nothing  but  a  too  keen  sense  of 
humor.  Hogarty's  face  was  more  than  eager.  It 
was  white  and  strained. 

"Flash,"  he  began  at  last,  ludicrously  uncomfort 
able,  "Flash,  I'm  sorry  I  wrote  this,  for  I  always  told 
you  that  if  I  ever  did  send  any  one  to  you  he'd  be  a 
live  one  and  worth  your  trouble.  Right  this  minute 
I  can't  tell  why  I  did  it,  either,  unless  I  am  one  of 
those  naturally  dangerous  idiots  with  a  perverted 
sense  of  what  is  really  funny.  Or  maybe  I  didn't 
believe  he'd  ever  get  any  farther  from  home  than 
he  was  that  morning  when  I  gave  him  this  card.  That 
must  have  been  it,  I  suppose.  Because  I  never  saw 
him  in  action.  Why,  I  never  so  much  as  saw  him 
kick  a  dog ! 

"I'm  telling  you  because  I  don't  want  you  to  be 
disappointed  again — and  yet  I  have  to  tell  you,  too, 
that  right  at  the  time  I  wrote  this  stuff,  Flash,  just 
for  a  minute  or  two,  I  believe  I  did  almost  think  he 
might  be  an  answer  to  your  riddle.  Maybe  that  was 
because  he  had  already  licked  Jed  The  Red  once,  and 
I  should  judge,  made  a  very  thorough  job  of  it  at  that. 
That  must  have  influenced  me  some.  But  let  me  tell 
you  all  the  story  and  maybe  you'll  understand  a  little 
better — something  that  I  can't  say  for  myself  right 
at  this  very  instant." 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  205 

Morehouse  began  at  the  very  beginning,  looking 
oftener  at  the  card  between  his  fingers  than  at  Ho- 
garty's  too  brilliant  eyes,  which  were  fairly  burning 
his  face. 

"In  the  first  place,  Flash,"  he  went  on,  "y°u  know 
as  well  as  I  do  that  The  Red  isn't  a  real  champion 
and  never  will  be.  He  has  the  build  and  the  punch, 
and  he's  game,  too — you'll  have  to  hand  him  that. 
But  stacked  up  against  the  men  who  held  the  title 
ten  years  ago  he'd  last  about  five  rounds — if  he  was 
lucky.  I  don't  know  why  that  is,  either,  unless  he  is 
so  crooked  at  heart  that  he  loses  confidence  even  in 
himself  when  he  has  to  face  a  real  man.  But  the 
public  at  this  minute  thinks  he  is  as  great  as  the 
greatest.  The  way  he  polished  off  The  Texan  had 
convinced  them  of  that — and  we — well,  the  paper  al 
ways  tries  to  give  them  what  they  want,  you  know. 

"Now  that  was  the  reason  I  ran  up  north  last 
week,  after  I'd  got  a  tip  that  Conway  hailed  original 
ly  from  a  little  New  England  village  back  in  the  hills 
— one  of  those  towns  that  are  almost  as  up-to-date 
to-day  as  they  were  fifty  years  ago.  It  looked  like 
a  nice  catchy  little  story,  which  I  will,  of  course,  ad 
mit  I  could  have  faked  just  as  well  as  not.  But  it 
was  the  cartoons  I  wanted.  You  can't  really  fake 
them — not  after  you've  once  known  the  real  thing. 
And  as  it  happens  I  have  known  it,  for  I  came  from 
a  village  up  that  way  myself. 


206  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

"And,  then,  I  was  curious,  too.  I've  always  had 
a  private  opinion  that  if  chance  hadn't  pitchforked 
Conway  into  the  prize-ring  he'd  have  made  a  grand 
success  as  a  blackjack  artist  or  a  second-story  man. 
But  I  wanted  the  pictures,  and  it  wasn't  a  very  diffi 
cult  matter  either  to  get  them.  You  see  I  knew  just 
where  I'd  find  what  I  wanted,  and  things  panned  out 
pretty  much  as  I  thought  they  would. 

"It  didn't  take  more  than  a  half  hour  to  spread  the 
report  that  Conway  was  practically  the  only  really 
famous  man  in  the  country  to-day,  and  in  a  fair  way 
to  make  his  own  home  town  just  as  celebrated.  It 
may  sound  funny  to  you,  for  you  don't  know  the 
back-country  as  I  do,  but  just  that  short  article  in 
the  daily,  coupled  with  a  few  helpful  hints  from  me 
that  I  was  looking  for  all  the  nice,  touching  incidents 
of  his  boyhood  days,  with  the  opinions  of  the  oldest 
inhabitants,  and  maybe  a  few  of  their  pictures  to  be 
used  in  a  big  Sunday  feature,  brought  them  all  out: 
the  old  circle  of  regulars  which  always  sits  around 
the  tavern  stove  nights,  straightening  out  the  coun 
try's  politics  and  attending  strictly  to  everybody's  af 
fairs  but  their  own. 

"Eager?  Man,  it  was  a  stampede!  I  reckon  that 
every  male  inhabitant  within  a  radius  of  five  miles 
was  there  when  I  opened  the  meeting  with  a  few 
choice  words — every  man  but  one,  and  he  comes  in 
just  a  little  later  in  this  tale.  They  surely  did  turn 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  207 

out.  It  was  as  perfect  a  mass  meeting  as  any  I've 
ever  seen,  but  the  crowd  itself  didn't  get  much  of  a 
chance  to  talk — not  individually  anyhow.  They  were 
simply  the  chorus  of  'ayes'  which  the  town's  big  man 
paused  now  and  then  for  them  to  voice. 

"He  did  the  talking,  Flash.  They  called  him 
'Judge' — they  most  always  do  in  those  towns.  He 
most  certainly  monopolized  the  conversation,  and 
while  he  gave  his  monologue,  I  sat  and  got  the  best 
of  them  down  on  paper.  They  thought  I  was  tak 
ing  notes.  I'll  show  you  his  picture  some  day.  He's 
the  meanest  man  I  ever  met  yet — and  I've  met  a  few  ! 
Puffy-faced  and  red,  and  too  close  between  the  eyes. 
Fat,  too !  Somehow  I'm  ashamed  of  being  plump 
myself,  since  meeting  him. 

"He  did  all  the  talking,  and  from  the  very  first 
time  he  opened  his  mouth  I  knew  he  was  lying.  You 
can  always  tell  a  professional  liar;  he  lies  too  smooth 
ly,  somehow.  Well,  to  judge  from  his  story  Con- 
way  was  the  only  unspotted  cherub  child  that  had 
ever  been  born  and  bred  in  that  section.  Oh,  yes,  he' '  d 
seen  the  promise  in  Conway;  he  knew  that  Conway 
was  to  be  the  pride  and  joy  of  the  community,  right 
from  the  first.  He'd  always  said  so !  Why,  he  was 
the  very  man  who  had  given  him  his  first  pointers 
in  the  game,  when  he  was  cleaning  up  all  the  rest  of 
the  boys  in  town,  just  by  way  of  recreation.  If  I'd 
never  had  a  suspicion  before  I'd  have  known  just 


208  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

from  those  slick  sentences  of  his  that  Conway  had 
never  been  anything  in  that  village  but  a  small-sized 
edition  of  the  full-blown  crook  he  is  to-day. 

"But  I  didn't  have  any  reason  to  contradict  him, 
did  I  ?  He  was  doing  all  that  I  could  ask,  and  more. 
For  there  wasn't  a  man  in  that  whole  crowd  who 
dared  to  sneeze  until  he  got  his  cue  from  the  Judge. 
But  that  fat  man  got  his  jolt  finally,  just  the  same, 
and  got  it  good,  too. 

"He  had  just  finished  telling  how  Conway  had 
cleaned  up  the  village  kids,  irrespective  of  size,  when 
ever  he  felt  the  need  of  exercise,  and  was  looking 
around  at  the  circle  behind  him  to  give  them  a  chance 
to  back  him  up,  when  it  happened.  I  told  you  a  min 
ute  ago  that  I  wished  you  could  have  seen  that  boy, 
as  I  saw  him  that  night,  standing  there  in  that  tavern 
doorway.  You  see,  he'd  come  in  so  quietly  that  no 
body  had  heard  him — come  in  just  in  time  to  hear  the 
Judge's  last  words.  And  when  the  Judge  turned 
around  he  looked  full  into  that  boy's  eyes. 

"Oh,  he  got  his,  good  and  plenty !  I  didn't  watch 
him  very  closely  because  it  was  hard  for  me  to  take 
my  eyes  off  the  white  face  of  that  boy  at  the  door. 
But  I  did  see  that  he  went  pretty  nearly  purple  for 
a  minute,  and  I  heard  him  gurgle,  too,  he  was  that 
surprised,  before  he  caught  his  breath.  Then  he 
stuck  out  one  hand  and  tried  to  bluff  it  out. 

"  'There's  one  of  'em,  right  now,'  he  sang  out; 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  209 

but  he  should  have  known  that  a  man  who's  sure  of 
his  ground  doesn't  have  to  shout  to  make  his  point. 
'There's  Young  Denny  Bolton,'  he  said,  'who  went 
to  school  with  him,  right  here  in  this  town.  Ask  him 
if  Jeddy  Conway  was  pretty  handy  as  a  boy!'  And 
he  laughed,  Flash — commenced  to  chuckle !  Oh, 
there  was  no  misunderstanding  what  he  meant  to 
insinuate.  'Ask  him — but  maybe  he's  still  a  little 
rnite  too  sensitive  to  talk  about  it  yet — eh,  Denny?' 

"He  thought  he  could  bluff  it — bluff  me,  with  that 
boy  standing  there  in  the  doorway  calling  him  a  liar 
as  if  I  didn't  know  it  all,  yet  at  that  minute  I 
couldn't  help  but  ask  that  boy  a  question.  I  think 
it  was  mostly  because  I  wanted  to  hear  what  the 
voice  of  a  man  with  a  face  like  his  would  sound  like, 
for  he  hadn't  opened  his  lips  to  answer  that  fat  hypo 
crite's  insinuation. 

"So  I  asked  him  if  he  had  known  Conway  well — 
asked  him  if  he  had  had  a  few  set-to's  with  him 
himself.  I'm  not  going  to  forget  how  he  looked 
when  he  turned  toward  me,  either.  I'm  not  going 
to  forget  the  look  on  his  face  as  he  swung  around. 
And  I'm  remembering  his  voice  pretty  fairly  well, 
too,  right  now ! 

"  'Maybe,'  he  answered  me,  and  he  almost  drawled 
,the  words.  'Maybe  I  did,'  he  said. 

"Why,  Flash,  he  couldn't  have  said  more  if  he 
had  talked  for  a  week.  He'd  said  all  there  was  to 


210  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

say,  now,  hadn't  he?  But  it  let  the  Judge  out,  just 
the  same,  for  he  just  gave  the  circle  behind  him  the 
the  high  sign  and  set  the  crowd  to  laughing  for  a 
minute  or  two,  until  the  tension  was  relieved.  I 
didn't  laugh  myself.  There  didn't  seem  to  be  much 
of  a  joke  about  it  after  seeing  that  boy's  eyes.  It 
was  Bolton — Young  Denny,  they  called  him — and  I 
got  his  story,  their  side  of  it  at  least,  after  he  shut 
the  door  behind  him. 

"It's  another  thing  I'd  be  more  likely  to  under 
stand  than  you  would,  Flash,  because  you've  never 
lived  in  a  village  like  that,  and  I  have.  Back  a  hun 
dred  years  or  so  the  first  settlement  had  been  named 
for  his  family — Boltonwood,  they'd  called  it — but  I 
guess  the  strain  must  have  petered  out.  From  all  I 
could  gather  the  Boltons  had  been  drinking  them 
selves  to  death  with  unfailing  regularity  and  dispatch 
for  several  generations  back,  and  I  heard  a  choice 
detailed  description,  too,  of  the  way  the  boy's  own 
father  had  made  his  final  exit — heard  it  from  that 
moon-faced  leading  citizen  who  did  all  the  talking — 
that  made  me  want  to  kick  him  in  the  face.  I  don't 
know  yet  why  I  didn't.  I  was  sitting  on  the  tavern 
desk  with  my  feet  on  a  level  with  his  face.  I  should 
have  bashed  him  a  good  one.  It's  one  of  the  lost  op 
portunities  which  I'll  always  regret,  unless  maybe  I 
take  a  Saturday  off  some  day  and  run  up  and  beat 
him  up  proper! 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  2 1 1 

"He  gave  me  a  nice  little  account  of  how  the  boy's 
dad  had  gone  over,  screaming  mad,  with  the  town's 
elite  standing  around  saying,  'I  told  you  so,'  and  that 
big  scared  kid  kneeling  beside  his  bed,  trying  to  pray 
— trying  to  make  it  easier  for  him. 

"Did  you  ever  see  a  flock  of  buzzards  circling, 
Flash,  waiting  for  some  wounded  thing  beneath  them 
to  die?  No?  Well,  I  have,  and  it  isn't  a  pretty 
sight  either.  That  was  what  they  made  me  think  of 
that  night.  And  I  learned,  too,  how  they'd  been 
waiting  ever  since  for  that  boy  to  go  the  way  his 
father  had  traveled  before  him;  they  even  told  me 
that  the  same  old  jug  still  stood  in  the  kitchen  corner, 
and  would  have  pointed  out  his  tumble-down  old 
place  on  the  hill,  where  they  had  let  him  go  on  living 
alone,  only  it  was  too  dark  for  any  one  to  see. 

"Odd,  now  wasn't  it?  But  it  didn't  come  to  me 
at  that  moment.  I  never  gave  it  a  thought  that  there 
was  a  man  who  Jjiad  licked  Conway  once  and  might 
do  it  again.  But  I  didn't  forget  him;  I  wanted  to, 
that  night,  but  I  couldn't.  And  I  guess  I  was  still 
thinking  about  him  when  some  one  touched  my  arm 
the  next  morning,  while  I  was  waiting  for  the  train, 
and  I  turned  around  and  found  him  standing  there 
beside  me. 

"Flash,  have  you  noticed  how  grave  he  is — kind  of 
sober-quiet?  Have  you?  That  comes  from  living 
too  much  alone.  And  he's  only  a  kid,  after  all — 


2 1 2  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

that's  all,  just  a  kid.  He  startled  me  for  a  moment, 
but  the  minute  I  looked  at  him  that  morning  I  knew 
he  had  something  on  his  mind,  and  after  I'd  tried 
to  make  it  a  little  easier  for  him  I  gave  him  a  chance 
to  talk. 

"He  had  a  big  raw  welt  across  one  cheek — a  wicked 
thing  to  look  at!  You've  noticed  it,  I  see.  Well,  he 
stood  there  fingering  it  a  little,  trying  to  think  of  a 
way  to  begin  gracefully.  Then  he  got  out  the  paper 
with  the  account  of  Jed  The  Red's  last  go  in  it  and 
jumped  right  into  the  middle  of  all  that  was  bother- 
ing  him.  He  hunted  out  the  statement  of  Conway's 
share  of  the  purse  and  asked  me  if  it  was  true.  I 
told  him  it  was — that  I'd  written  it  myself.  And 
then  he  asked  me,  point  blank,  how  he  could  get  a 
chance  at  Conway.  He — he  said  Conway  had  never 
been  able  to  whip  him,  Flash — said  he  didn't  believe 
he  ever  could! 

"Now,  I'm  sentimental — I  know  that.  But  I  man 
age  to  keep  my  feet  on  the  ground  now  and  then  just 
the  same.  And  so  I  want  to  say  right  here  that  it 
wasn't  his  words  that  counted  with  me.  Why,  I'd 
have  laughed  in  his  face  only  for  the  way  he  said 
them!  As  it  was,  I  said  too  much.  But  I  thought 
of  you  then — I  couldn't  help  it,  could  I?  It  hit  me 
smash  between  the  eyes!  His  face  had  been  remind 
ing  me  of  something — something  I  couldn't  place  un 
til  that  minute.  Flash,  do  you  know  what  he  made 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  213 

me  think  of?  Do  you?  Well,  he  looked  like  a  half 
tone  print  of  the  Pilgrim  Fathers — the  kind  that  they 
hang  on  the  walls  in  the  district  schools.  And  it  got 
me — got  me  ! — maybe  you  know  why.  I  don't.  But 
I  wrote  it  on  this  card,  under  your  address,  and  gave 
it  to  him. 

"I  would  have  laughed  at  him  only  he  was  so  mighty 
grave  and  quiet.  One  doesn't  make  a  practice  of 
laughing  at  men  who  are  as  big  as  he  is — not  when 
they  carry  themselves  like  that.  I  kept  my  funny 
feelings  to  myself,  if  I  had  any,  while  I  spent  a  min 
ute  or  two  sizing  him  up.  And  that  brought  me  back 
to  his  chin — back  to  that  big,  oozing  cut.  I  had  been 
waiting  for  an  opportunity  to  ask  him  about  it,  and 
didn't  know  myself  how  to  go  about  it.  Just  from  that 
you  can  realize  how  he  had  me  guessing,  for  it  takes 
quite  some  jolt  to  make  me  coy.  So  I  followed  his 
own  lead  finally  and  blurted  the  question  right  out, 
without  any  fancy  conversational  trimmings,  and  he 
told  me  how  it  had  happened. 

"One  of  his  horses  had  kicked  him.  You  look  as 
though  you  could  have  guessed  it  yourself !  He  didn't 
tell  you,  did  he,  Flash?  No-o-o?  Well,  that  was  it. 
He  said  he  had  gone  blundering  in  on  them  the 
night  before,  to  feed,  without  speaking  to  them  in  the 
darkness.  It  isn't  hard  to  guess  what  had  made  him 
absent-minded  that  night.  You  can't  know,  just  from 
seeing  it  now,  how  bad  that  fresh  cut  was,  either.  It 


214  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

looked  bad  enough  to  lay  any  man  out,  and  I  told 
him  so.  But  he  said  he  had  managed  to  feed  his 
horses  just  the  same — he'd  worked  them  pretty  hard 
that  week  in  the  timber! 

"It  wasn't  merely  what  he  said,  you  see;  it  was 
the  way  he  said  it.  I've  made  more  fuss  before  now 
over  pounding  my  finger  with  a  tack  hammer.  And  I 
did  a  lot  of  talking  myself  in  that  next  minute  or 
two.  A  man  can  say  a  whole  lot  that  is  almost  worth 
while  when  he  talks  strictly  to  himself.  It  wasn't 
alone  the  fact  that  he  had  been  able  to  get  back  on 
his  feet  and  keep  on  traveling  after  a  blow  that  would 
have  caved  in  most  men's  skulls  that  hit  me  so  hard. 
The  recollection  of  what  his  eyes  had  been  like  that 
night  before,  when  he  had  handed  the  Judge  the  lie 
without  even  opening  his  lips,  helped  too — and  the 
way  he  shut  his  mouth,  there  on  the  station  platform, 
when  I  gave  him  an  opening  to  say  his  little  say  con 
cerning  the  village  in  general.  He  just  smiled,  Flash, 
a  slow  sort  of  a  smile,  and  never  said  a  word. 

"Man,  he  knew  how  to  take  punishment!  Oh, 
don't  doubt  that!  I  realized  right  then  that  he  had 
been  taking  it  for  years,  ever  since  they  had 
counted  his  father  out,  with  the  whole  house  yelling 
for  the  stuff  to  get  him,  too.  He'd  been  hanging  on, 
hoping  for  a  fluke  to  save  him.  He'd  been  hanging 
on,  and  he  didn't  squeal,  either,  while  he  was  doing 
it.  Not — one — yip — out — of — him ! 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  215 

"So  I  made  him  give  me  back  the  card  and  I  wrote 
the  rest  of  this  stuff  across  the  back  of  it.  And  again 
I'll  tell  you,  Flash,  right  now,  I'm  not  sure  why  I 
did  it.  But  I'll  tell  you,  too,  just  as  I  told  myself  a 
few  mornings  ago,  back  there  on  that  village  station 
platform,  that  if  I  were  Jed  The  Red  and  I  had  my 
choice,  I  wouldn't  choose  to  go  up  against  a  man  who 
had  been  waiting  five  years  for  an  opening  to  swing. 
No — I  would  not!  For  he's  quite  likely  to  do  more 
or  less  damage.  I  never  thought  he'd  turn  up,  and  I 
don't  know  whether  I  am  sorry  or  not.  But  now 
that  he's  here,  what  are  you  going  to  do  about  it? 

"It's  my  fault,  but  whatever  you  do  I  want  to  ask 
you  not  to  do  one  thing.  I  want  you  to  promise  not 
to  try  to  make  a  fool  of  the  boy,  Flash?  You're, 
well — a  little  bit  merciless  on  some  of  'em,  you  know. 
It's  not  his  fault,  and  I — why,  damn  it,  I  haven't  met 
a  man  in  years  I  like  as  I  do  that  big,  quiet,  lonesome 
kid!  Now,  there's  your  story.  It  explains  the  whole 
thing,  and  my  apologies  go  with  it.  What  are  you 
going  to  do?" 


CHAPTER  XV 

JESSE  HOGARTY  had  been  listening  without 
moving  a  muscle — without  once  taking  his  two 
brilliant  eyes  from  Morehouse's  warm  face — 
even  when  Morehouse  refused  to  look  back  at  him 
as  he  talked. 

"  'Introducing  The  Pilgrim,' "  he  murmured  to 
himself,  after  a  moment  of  silence,  and  the  professor 
of  English  accent  could  not  have  been  more  perfect, 
"The  Pilgrim !  Hum-m-m,  surely !  And  a  really 
excellent  name  for  publicity  purposes,  too.  It — it 
fits  the  man." 

Then  he  threw  back  his  head — he  came  suddenly 
to  his  feet,  to  pace  twice  the  length  of  the  room  and 
back,  before  he  remembered.  When  he  reseated  him 
self  he  was  gnawing  his  lip  as  if  vexed  that  he  had 
showed  even  that  much  lack  of  self-control.  And 
once  more  he  buried  the  point  of  his  chin  in  his 
hands. 

"Do,  Chub?"  he  picked  up  the  other's  question 
silkily.  "What  am  I  going  to  do?  Well,  I  believe 
I  am  going  to  pay  my  debts  at  last.  I  think  I  am 
going  to  settle  a  little  score  that  has  stood  so  long 
against  me  that  it  had  nearly  cost  me  my  self-respect." 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  217 

That  lightning-like  change  swept  his  face  again, 
twisting  his  lips  nastily,  stamping  all  his  features  with 
something  totally  bad.  The  man  who  had  never  been 
whipped  by  any  man,  from  the  day  he  won  his  first 
brawl  in  the  gutter,  showed  through  the  veneer  that 
was  no  thicker  than  the  funereal  black  and  white  garb 
he  wore,  no  deeper  than  his  superficially  polished  ut 
terance  which  he  had  acquired  from  long  contact  with 
those  who  had  been  born  to  it. 

"I'm  going  to  pay  my  debts,"  he  slurred  the  words 
dangerously,  "pay  them  with  the  same  coin  that  Den- 
nison  slipped  to  me  two  years  ago!" 

Little  by  little  Morehouse's  head  came  forward  at 
the  mention  of  that  name.  It  was  of  Dennison  that 
the  plump  newspaper  man  had  been  subconsciously 
thinking  ever  since  he  had  entered  Hogarty's  im 
maculate  little  office;  it  was  of  Dennison  that  he  al 
ways  thought  whenever  he  saw  that  bad  light  kindling 
in  the  ex-lightweight's  eyes.  Dennison  was  the  pro 
moter  who  had  backed  Jed  The  Red  from  the  day 
when  the  latter  had  fought  his  first  fight. 

And,  "You  don't  mean,"  he  faltered,  "Flash,  you 
don't  mean  that  you  think  that  boy  can  stop " 

Hogarty's  thin  voice  bit  in  and  cut  him  short. 

"Think?"  he  demanded.  "Think?  I  don't  have 
to  think  any  more !  I  know !" 

For  a  second  he  seemed  to  be  pondering  something; 
then  he  threw  up  his  head  again.  And  his  startlingly 


2 1 8  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

sudden  burst  of  laughter  made  Morehouse  wince  a 
little. 

"Don't  make  a  fool  of  him,  Chub?"  he  croaked. 
"Be  merciful  with  the  boy  !  Man,  you're  half  an  hour 
late !  I  did  my  best.  Oh,  I'm  bad — I  know  just 
how  bad  I  can  be,  when  I  try.  But  he  called  me ! 
Yes,  that's  what  he  did — he  as  much  as  told  me  that 
I  wasn't  giving  him  a  chance  to  get  his  cards  on  the 
table.  So  I  ran  him  up  against  Sutton.  And  I  did 
more  than  that.  I  told  Boots  to  get  him — told  him 
to  beat  him  to  death — and  I  meant  it,  too !  And  do 
you  know  what  happened?  Could  you  guess?  Well, 
I'll  tell  you  and  save  you  time. 

"He  went  in  and  took  enough  punishment  from 
Boots  in  that  first  round  to  make  any  man  stop  and 
think.  He  put  up  the  worst  exhibition  I  ever  saw, 
just  because  he  was  trying  to  fight  the  way  Ogden 
had  coached  him,  instead  of  his  own  style.  That  was 
the  first  round;  but  it  didn't  take  him  very  long  to 
see  where  he  had  been  wrong.  There  wasn't  any  sec 
ond  round — that  is,  not  so  that  you  could  really 
notice  it. 

"He  was  waiting  for  the  bell,  and  the  gong  just 
seemed  to  pick  him  up  and  drop  him  in  the  middle 
of  the  ring.  And  Sutton  went  to  him — and  he  caught 
Boots  coming  in !  Why,  he  just  snapped  his  right 
over  and  straightened  him  up,  and  then  stepped  in 
and  whipped  across  his  left,  and  Boots  went  back  into 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  219 

the  ropes.    He  went  back — and  he  stayed  back!" 

Swiftly,  almost  gutturally,  Hogarty  sketched  it  all 
out:  Young  Denny's  calm  statement  of  his  errand, 
his  own  groundless  burst  of  spleen,  and  the  outcome 
of  the  try-out  which  had  sent  him  hurrying  back  to 
Denny's  dressing-room  with  many  questions  on  his 
tongue's  tip  and  a  living  hope  in  his  brain  which  he 
hardly  dared  to  nurse. 

Hogarty  even  recalled  and  related  the  late  de 
livery  of  the  card  of  introduction  which  Morehouse 
was  now  nervously  twisting  into  misshapen  shreds 
and,  word  for  word,  repeated  the  boy's  grave  ex 
planation  of  his  reason  for  that  tardiness. 

"He  bothered  you,  did  he?"  he  asked.  "Well,  he 
had  me  guessing,  too,  right  from  the  first  word  he 
spoke.  There  was  something  about  him  that  left 
me  wondering — thinking  a  little.  But  I'm  under 
standing  a  whole  lot  better  since  you  finished  talking. 
You're  right,  too,  Chub — you're  all  of  that!  Five 
years  is  a  long  time  to  wait  for  a  chance  to  swing. 
I  ought  to  know — I've  waited  half  that  long  myself. 
That  was  the  way  he  started  for  Boots,  that  second 
round.  Oh,  it  was  deadly — it  was  mighty,  mighty 
wicked.  And  now,  to  top  it  all,  it's  The  Red  for 
whom  he  was  looking,  too.  I  wish  it  wasn't  so  easy; 
I  sure  do !  It's  so  simple  I  almost  don't  enjoy  it.  Al 
most — but  not  quite !" 

Once  more  he  shot  to  his  feet  and  began  pacing  up 


220  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

and  down  the  room.  Morehouse  sat  following  him 
to  and  fro  with  his  eyes,  trying  to  comprehend  each 
step  of  this  bewildering  development  which  was  fur 
thest  of  all  from  what  he  had  expected.  He  had 
listened  with  his  face  fairly  glowing  with  apprecia 
tion  to  the  ex-lightweight's  account  of  Denny's  com 
ing.  It  was  all  so  entirely  in  keeping  with  what  he 
had  already  known  of  him.  But  the  glint  died  out 
of  his  eyes  after  a  time;  even  his  nervously  active 
fingers  stopped  worrying  the  bit  of  cardboard  on  the 
table. 

"Granted  that  he  could  turn  the  trick,  Flash,"  he 
suggested  at  last,  "even  admitting  that  he  might  be 
able  to  stop  Conway  after  a  few  months  of  training 
to  help  him  out,  do  you  suppose  he'd  be  willing  to 
hang  around  and  fight  his  way  up  through  the  ranks, 
until  he  forced  'em  to  let  him  have  his  match?  It's 
usually  a  two  year's  job,  you  know,  at  the  very 
least. 

"I  don't  know  why,  Flash,  but  somehow  the  more 
I  think  of  it,  the  surer  I  grow  that  there  is  some 
thing  more  behind  his  wanting  that  fight  than  we 
know  anything  about.  It  isn't  just  a  grudge;  it  isn't 
just  because  of  the  dirty  deal  which  that  village  has 
been  giving  him,  either.  I've  been  wondering — I'm 
wondering  right  now  why  he  asked  me  if  that  ac 
count  of  the  purse  was  true  or  not.  Because  men 
don't  fight  the  way  you  say  he  fought,  Flash,  just 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  221 

for  money.  They  fight  hard,  I'll  admit,  but  not  that 
way!" 

There  was  a  living  menace  in  Hogarty's  steady 
tread  up  and  down  the  room.  He  wheeled  and 
crossed,  turned  and  retraced  his  steps  noiselessly,  cat- 
footed  in  his  low  rubbed-shod  shoes.  And  he  turned 
a  gaze  that  was  almost  pitying  upon  the  plump  man's 
objection. 

"Two  years — to  get  ready?"  he  asked  softly. 
"Chub,  do  you  think  I'd  wait  two  years — now?  Why, 
two  months  is  too  long,  and  that  is  the  outside  limit 
which  I'm  allowing  myself  in  this  affair.  You're  a  lit 
tle  slow,  Chub — just  a  bit  slow  in  grasping  the  possi 
bilities,  aren't  you?  Think  a  minute!  Put  your 
mind  upon  it,  man !  I've  told  you  I  am  going  to  pay 
Dennison  off — and  pay  him  with  the  same  coin  that 
he  handed  me.  Doesn't  that  mean  anything  at  all?" 

He  stopped  short,  crossed  to  the  table  and  stood 
with  his  finger-tips  bracketed  upon  its  surface.  More- 
house  knew  Hogarty — knew  him  as  did  few  other 
men,  unless,  perhaps,  it  was  those  who,  years  before, 
had  faced  him  in  the  ring.  And  at  that  moment  Ho 
garty's  eyes  were  mere  slits  in  his  face  as  he  stood  and 
peered  down  into  the  newspaper  man's  upturned  fea 
tures,  his  mouth  like  nothing  so  much  as  a  livid  scar 
above  his  chin.  There  was  nothing  of  mirth  in  those 
eyes,  nothing  of  merriment  in  that  tight  mouth,  and 
yet  as  he  sat  and  gazed  back  up  at  them,  Morehouse's 


222  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

own  lips  began  to  twitch.  They  began  to  relax.  That 
wide  grin  spread  to  the  very  corners  of  his  eyelids 
and  half  hid  his  delighted  comprehension  behind  a 
thousand  tiny  wrinkles. 

"I  wonder,"  he  breathed,  "I  wonder  now,  Flash, 
if  you  are  thinking  about  the  same  thing  I  am?  For 
if  you  are — well,  you're  too  sober  faced.  You  are 
that !  It's  time  to  indulge  in  a  little  hysterics." 

And  he  began  to  chuckle;  he  sat  and  shook  with 
muffled  spasms  of  absolute  joy  as  the  thing  became 
more  and  more  vivid  with  each  new  thought.  Even 
Hogarty's  answering  smile,  coming  from  reluctant 
lips,  had  in  it  something  of  sympathetic  mirth. 

"That's  just  what  I  am  thinking,"  he  said.  "Just 
that!  It's  what  I  meant  when  I  said  I  was  going  to 
pay  him — with  his  own  coin.  When  a  man  plays  an 
other  man  crooked,  he  expects  that  other  man  to 
come  back  at  him  some  day;  he  is  looking  for  him 
to  do  that.  But  there  is  one  thing  he  doesn't  expect 
— not  usually.  He  isn't  looking  for  him  to  work  the 
same  old  game.  It  is  something  new  he's  looking  to 
guard  against. 

"And  that  is  where  Dennison  is  weak — in  that  spot 
and  one  other.  He  doesn't  know  even  yet  that  when  I 
fell  for  his  game  I  fell  hard  enough  to  wake  me  up. 
He  thinks  I  haven't  a  suspicion  but  what  it  was  just 
an  accident  that  laid  Button  out,  two  years  back — 
just  a  lucky  punch  of  The  Red's  that  went  across  and 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  223 

spoiled  our  perfect  frame-up.  And  he  hasn't  a  sus 
picion  that  I  know  he  was  sure  The  Red  was  going 
to  clean  up  Sutton,  just  as  surely  as  they  went  to  the 
ring  together. 

"That  is  where  he  is  weak.  When  a  man  is  a  crook 
he  wants  to  be  a  real  crook — and  a  real  one  is  suspi 
cious  of  everybody,  even  of  himself." 

He  lifted  one  hand  and  pounded  gently  upon  the 
polished  surface  of  the  table. 

"The  old  days  are  done — dead — when  a  man  got 
his  reputation,  and  a  chance  at  the  big  ones  simply 
by  fighting  his  way  up  from  the  bottom.  I  can  give 
a  man  a  bigger  reputation  in  a  week,  with  five  thou 
sand  dollars'  worth  of  real  advertising,  than  he'd  be 
able  to  get  in  a  lifetime  the  old  way.  And  train- 

ing? " 

He  jerked  his  head  over  one  shoulder  toward  the 
dressing-rooms  beyond  the  closed  door. 

"Right  now  he  is  just  where  I  want  him.  Why, 
he  looks  like  a  pitiful  dub  if  you  hold  him  back.  Or 
der  him  to  wait — and  it's  heartbreaking  to  watch  him 
suffer.  In  one  month  I  can  teach  him  all  he'll  ever 
need  to  know  about  blocking  and  getting  away.  And 
the  rest?  Well,  you'll  get  a  chance  to  see  just  what 
happens  when  he  really  goes  into  action.  I  tell  you 
it  makes  you  stop  and  think. 

"And  I  don't  care  what  he  is  fighting  for;  I  don't 
care  what  he  wants.  Pleasure  or  profit,  it's  all  one  to 


224  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

me.  It's  you  I  need  most  right  now,  Chub.  I  know 
you  have  always  been  a  little  particular  about  soil 
ing  your  hands.  A  shady  deal  never  appealed  to  me 
so  much,  either,  but  I'm  not  exactly  bashful  about 
this  one.  That  part  of  it  will  be  my  own  private 
affair.  You  handle  the  publicity  end — merely  hail 
Bolton  as  a  comer,  when  the  time  is  ripe.  Are  you— 
are  you  in  on  it?" 

Morehouse  thoughtfully  scratched  his  head. 

"I  have  been  a  trifle  fastidious,  haven't  I?"  he 
murmured,  and  unconsciously  he  mimicked  Hogarty's 
measured  accents.  "But  I  hardly  believe  that  any 
sensitive  scruples  of  mine  would  annoy  me  much  in 
this  matter.  I  don't  know  but  what  I'd  just  as  soon 
squash  a  snake  with  a  brick,  even  if  I  knew  it  was 
somebody's  beloved  performing  pet. 

"That,  as  you  say,  is  your  side  of  the  question. 
As  for  me — well,  every  time  I  remember  that  pop- 
eyed  unctuous  fat  party  they  called  the  'Judge'  chant 
ing  Conway's  innocent  childhood,  with  that  big,  lone 
some  kid  standing  there  in  the  doorway  listening  and 
trying  to  understand,  I  begin  to  sizzle.  It  is  time 
that  Conway  was  licked — and  licked  right ! 

"Oh,  I'm  in  on  it — I  want  to  be  there !  But,"  he 
stopped  and  made  a  painstaking  effort  to  fit  the  torn 
card  together  again,  "but  I  have  an  idea  that  Bolton 
may  be  the  one  to  hold  out.  There  are  some  honest 
people,  you  know,  who  are  honest  all  the  time.  He 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  225 

might  not  understand  the  necessity  of — er — a  little 
professional  fixing,  so  to  speak." 

"Will  he  have  to  be  in  on  it?"  Hogarty  countered 
instantly.  "Will  he?  Not  to  any  great  extent,  he 
won't.  According  to  my  plan  he  fights  straight.  Don't 
you  suppose  I  know  a  straight  man  when  I  see  one, 
just  as  well  as  you  do? 

"Here's  the  whole  thing — just  as  I'll  put  it  up  to 
Dennison  before  it's  dark  to-night.  It's  Dennison's 
own  plan,  too,  in  the  first  place,  so  he  hasn't  any  kick 
coming.  We'll  match  Bolton  against  one  of  the  fair 
ly  good  ones — Lancing,  say — in  about  two  weeks. 
Lancing  gets  his  orders  to  open  up  in  the  sixth  round 
and  go  down  with  the  punch — and  stay  down !  That's 
plain  enough,  isn't  it?  Well,  Bolton  is  fighting  under 
the  name  of  'The  Pilgrim,'  and  you  step  up  the  next 
morning  and  give  him  two  columns — you  hail  him  as 
a  real  one,  at  last. 

"We'll  match  him  with  The  Texan  then.  Conway 
whipped  him  back  a  week  or  two,  but  he  had  his  hands 
full  doing  it.  The  Texan — and  I  ought  to  know — is 
open  to  reason  if  the  figure  is  big  enough  to  be  per 
suasive.  We'll  see  to  that. 

"He  gets  his  orders,  too — just  as  if  they  were  really 
necessary!  About  the  twelfth  he  lies  down  to  sleep. 
Why,  it's  so  simple  it's  real  art !  I'll  just  hold  Bol 
ton  back  until  those  rounds.  I'll  make  him  take  it 
slow — and  then  send  him  in  to  clean  up !  Dennison 


226  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

is  shy  a  match  right  this  minute  for  The  Red;  they're 
all  a  little  doubtful  about  him.  The  Pilgrim  will  be 
the  only  logical  man  in  the  world  to  send  against  him 
— that  is,  according  to  your  sporting  columns.  And 
Dennison,  of  course,  being  on  the  inside,  knows  he  is 
really  nothing  but  a  dub — knows  it  is  simply  a  plain 
open  and  shut  proposition.  That  is  to  say — he  thinks 
he  knows!" 

Jesse  Hogarty  paused  and  the  corners  of  his  lips 
twitched  back  to  show  his  teeth,  but  not  in  laughter. 

"It's  the  same  little  frame-up  that  he  sent  against 
Boots  and  me,"  he  finished.  "He  ought  to  be  satis 
fied,  hadn't  he?  And  I'll  have  him  on  the  street  the 
next  morning — I'll  put  him  where  he'll  be  glad  to 
borrow  a  dollar  to  buy  his  breakfast  with!" 

For  a  long  time  they  stared  back  into  each  other's 
face:  Hogarty  taut  at  the  table  side,  Morehouse 
slouched  deep  in  his  chair.  The  latter  was  the  first 
to  break  that  pregnant  silence.  He  was  nodding  his 
head  in  thoughtful  finality  when  he  lifted  himself  to 
his  feet. 

"You've  got  me,"  he  stated.  "You've  got  me 
snared!  Not  that  I  give  two  hoots  about  what  hap 
pens  to  Dennison,  mind !  I  don't — although  I  must 
admit  that  the  prospect  of  his  starving  to  death  is  a 
lovely  one  to  contemplate.  And  I'd  die  happy,  I 
think,  if  I  could  see  The  Red  trimmed,  and  trimmed 
with  conscientious  thoroughness.  But  those  aren't 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  227 

my  reasons  for  going  hands  with  you  in  this  assassina 
tion. 

"I  know  a  hunch  when  I  see  one.  I  ought  to,  for 
I've  spent  the  contents  of  my  little  yellow  envelope 
often  enough  trying  to  make  one  come  true.  And 
I'm  in  with  you,  Flash,  till  the  returns  are  all  in  from 
the  last  district,  but  it's  because  I  know  that  there  is 
something  more  than  either  of  us  dream  of  behind 
that  boy's  wanting  to  meet  Conway.  He  has  some 
thing  on  his  mind;  he  wants  something,  and  wants  it 
real  bad.  And  I  like  him — I  liked  him  right  from 
the  beginning — so  I'll  stick  around  and  help.  Maybe 
I'll  find  out  what  it  is  that's  been  bothering  him,  too, 
before  I  get  through.  But  I  wish  I  wasn't  of  such 
an  inquiring  turn  of  mind.  It  keeps  one  too  stirred 
up." 

He  stopped  to  grin  comically. 

"Any  objection,  now  that  I've  sworn  allegiance, 
Flash,  if  I  go  out  and  present  myself?" 

Hogarty's  whole  tense  body  began  to  relax,  his 
lean  face  softened  and  his  eyes  lost  much  of  their 
hardness  and  glitter  as  he  shook  his  head  in  nega 
tion. 

"That's  a  little  detail  of  the  campaign  which  I  had 
already  assigned  to  you,"  he  replied,  and  the  inflection 
of  his  voice  was  perfect.  "Not  that  I  have  any  fears 
of  his  going  the  way  of  his  forefathers,  however,  be 
cause  I  haven't.  And  if  my  assurance  on  that  point 


228  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

perplexes  you,  you  might  ask  him  to  have  one  drink 
and  watch  his  eyes  when  he  refuses  you. 

"But  I  would  like  to  have  you  look  out  for  him 
for  a  while.  If  you  don't  Ogden  will — Ogden  likes 
him,  too — and  he  is  too  frivolous  to  be  trusted." 

Hogarty  reached  out  one  long  arm  and  dropped  a 
hand  heavily  upon  Morehouse's  shoulder.  He  was 
smiling  openly  now — smiling  with  a  barefaced  enjoy 
ment  which  the  plump  newspaper  man  had  never  be 
fore  known  him  to  exhibit.  And  he  continued  to 
smile,  while  he  stood  there  in  the  open  door  and 
watched  Morehouse  mince  on  tip-toe  across  the  pol 
ished  floor  to  the  corner  where  Ogden  was  officiously 
presenting  each  member  of  the  Monday  morning 
squad  of  regulars,  as  they  returned  from  the  dressing- 
rooms,  to  the  big-shouldered  boy  in  black,  whose  face 
was  so  very  grave. 

Hogarty  smiled  as  he  closed  his  office  door,  after 
he  had  seen  Morehouse  slip  his  hand  through  the 
crook  of  Young  Denny's  arm,  in  spite  of  Bobby  Og- 
den's  yelp  of  protest,  and  clear  a  way  to  the  outer  en 
trance  with  one  haughty  flip  of  his  free  hand. 

Hours  later  that  same  day,  when  the  tumult  in 
the  long  main  room  of  the  gymnasium  had  hushed 
and  the  apathetic  Legs  and  his  helper  had  turned 
again  to  their  endless  task  of  grooming  the  waxed 
floor,  Dennison,  the  manager  of  Jed  The  Red,  sitting 
in  that  same  chair  which  Morehouse  had  occupied, 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  229 

cuddling  one  knee  in  his  hands,  fairly  basked  in  that 
same  smile.  The  purring  perfection  of  Hogarty's 
discourse  was  enticing.  The  absurd  simplicity  of 
his  plan,  which  he  admitted  must,  after  all,  be  cred 
ited  to  the  astuteness  of  Dennison  himself,  was  more 
than  alluring.  But  that  smile  was  the  quintessence 
of  hypnotic  flattery. 

It  savored  of  a  delightful  intimacy  which  Jesse 
Hogarty  accorded  to  few  men. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

IN  all  that  hill  town's  history  no  period  had 
ever  before  been  so  filled  with  sensation  as 
was  that  one  which  opened  with  the  flight  of 
Judge  Maynard's  yellow-wheeled  buckboard  along 
the  main  street  of  Boltonwood  to  herald  the  passing 
of  the  last  of  the  line  of  men  who  had  given  the 
village  its  name. 

One  by  one,  in  bewildering  succession,  climax  after 
climax  had  piled  itself  upon  those  which  already  had 
left  the  white-haired  circle  of  regulars  about  the 
Tavern  stove  breathless  with  fruitless  argument  and 
footless  conjecture. 

Old  Jerry's  desertion  from  the  ranks  of  the  old 
guard  over  which  the  Judge  had  ruled  with  a  more 
than  despotic  tongue,  bursting  with  bomblike  sud 
denness  in  their  midst  that  very  same  night  which 
had  seen  Young  Denny's  dramatic  departure,  had 
complicated  matters  to  an  inconceivable  degree.  For, 
after  all,  he  was  the  one  member  of  the  circle  to 
whom  they  had  all  been  unconsciously  looking  for 
a  comprehensive  answer  to  the  question  which  the 
Judge's  crafty  exhibition  of  the  boy's  bruised  face 
had  created. 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  23 1 

He  enjoyed  what  none  of  the  others  could  claim 
an  absolutely  incontestable  excuse  for  visiting  the 
old,  weatherbeaten  farmhouse  on  the  hill  above  town 
— and  in  his  official  capacity  they  felt,  too,  that  he 
might  venture  a  few  tentative  inquiries  at  least, 
which,  coming  from  any  one  else,  might  have  savored 
of  indelicacy. 

Not  but  what  the  circle  had  enjoyed  Judge  May- 
nard's  masterly  recital,  for  it  had  held  them  as  one 
man.  But  they  were  hungry  also  for  facts — facts 
which  could  convince  as  well  as  entertain.  Even  the 
Judge  himself  had  planned  upon  Old  Jerry's  co-op 
eration;  he  had  had  it  in  mind  to  be  patronizingly 
lenient  that  night;  that  is,  after  that  first  rebuke 
which  was  to  leave  him  the  undisputed  master  of 
the  situation. 

To  reach  the  really  great  heights  of  which  the 
evening's  triumph  was  capable  the  old  mail  carrier's 
collaboration  had  been  almost  indispensable.  They 
had  been  waiting  with  hungry  impatience  for  him. 
And  then  Old  Jerry  had  appeared — he  made  his 
entrance  and  his  exit — and  departing  had  left  them 
gasping  for  breath. 

Old  Jerry  had  not  waited  to  view  the  effect  of 
his  mad  defiance  of  the  town's  great  man.  It  is 
doubtful  if  he  had  given  that  side  of  the  issue  one 
passing  thought,  but  his  triumphant  withdrawal  from 
the  field  had  robbed  the  situation  of  not  one  bit  of 


232  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

its  decisiveness.  Quiet  followed  his  going,  a  stillness 
so  profound  that  they  heard  him  cackling  to  him 
self  in  insane  glee  as  he  went  down  the  steps.  And 
that  hush  had  endured  while  they  waited  in  a  de 
licious  state  of  tingling  suspense  for  the  first  furi 
ous  sentences  which  should  preface  his  lifelong  ban 
ishment  from  the  circle  itself. 

For  years  they  had  whispered,  "Just  wait,  he'll 
come  to  it — he'll  go  just  like  the  rest."  And  so 
Young  Denny's  final  weakening  had  not  been  so  un 
expected  as  it  might  have  been.  And  more  than 
once,  too,  when  the  Judge's  harsh  censure  of  him 
who  had  always  been  his  stanchest  supporter  had 
left  Old  Jerry  cringing  in  his  place  beside  the 
stove,  they  had  all  felt  the  justice  if  not  a  premo 
nition  of  final  retribution  to  come.  It  was  the  deb- 
onaire  dare-deviltry  of  Old  Jerry's  defiance  rather 
than  its  unexpectedness  which  had  proved  its  great 
est  sensation.  That  day's  one  supreme  moment 
— the  only  one  which  had  not  suffered  from  too 
acute  anticipation — came  while  they  waited  for 
the  Judge's  denial,  that  denial  which  was  never 
spoken. 

The  town's  great  man  had  slumped  back  in  his 
chair  in  a  kind  of  stunned  trance  while  the  apoplec 
tic  purple  of  his  earlier  wrath  faded  from  his  face. 
He  did  open  his  mouth,  but  not  in  any  effort  to 
speak.  It  was  only  to  lick  his  thick  lips  and  gurgle 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  233 

noisily  in  his  fat  throat.  He  tried  to  rise,  too,  and 
failed  in  his  first  attempt — and  tried  again. 

They  had  all  realized  what  it  was  that  made  his 
knees  wabble  as  he  crossed  to  the  door;  they  under 
stood  what  had  drained  his  face  of  all  its  color. 
Every  man  of  them  knew  why  the  latch  rattled  under 
his  shaking  figure.  The  Judge  had  been  afraid,  not 
merely  morally  frightened,  but  abjectly,  utterly  ter 
rified  in  trie  flesh — afraid  of  the  threat  in  the  inso 
lent  bearing  of  the  little,  shriveled  man  who  had 
passed  out  into  the  night  a  moment  before. 

It  could  have  been  funny.  It  might  have  been 
sublimest  farce-comedy,  had  they  not  lacked  the 
perspective  necessary  for  its  appreciation.  But  it 
was  enough  that  they  realized  that  the  demagogue 
had  come  crashing  down — enough  that,  watching  his 
furtive  disappearance  that  night,  they  learned  how 
pitiful  a  coward  a  blusterer  really  can  be. 

Old  Jerry's  own  actions  in  those  days  which  fol 
lowed  had  furnished  rich  food  for  conjecture.  The 
fact  that  it  had  been  the  little  mail-carrier  himselr 
who  had  ridden  in  the  carriage  beside  the  slim  girl 
with  the  tumbled  hair,  at  the  head  of  the  dreary 
procession  that  toiled  slowly  up  to  the  bleak  cem 
etery  behind  the  church,  had,  indeed,  been  worthy 
of  some  discussion.  The  spendthrift  prodigality  of 
the  white  roses  which  rumor  whispered  he  had  gone 
to  place  the  next  day  over  the  new  mound  of  raw 


234  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

earth  had  not  gone  unspoken.  Even  the  resemblance 
of  the  girl  who  John  Anderson  had  named  Dryad 
in  his  hunger  for  the  beautiful — even  the  likeness 
of  her  face  with  its  straight  little  nose  and  wistfully 
curved  lips,  to  the  features  of  that  small,  rain-stained 
statue  of  the  white  and  gold  slip  of  a  woman  who 
had  been  his  wife,  came  in  for  its  share  of  the  dis 
cussion,  too. 

But  all  those  topics  which  were  touched  upon  in 
the  nights  that  followed  were,  at  best,  of  only  sec 
ondary  importance.  Inevitably  the  circle  about  the 
stove  swung  back  to  a  consideration  of  that  first 
day's  major  climax,  until  the  very  discord  of  opinion 
which  hitherto  had  been  the  chief  joy  of  those  night 
ly  sessions  bade  fair  to  prove  their  total  disruption. 

For  the  circle  of  regulars  were  leaderless  now; 
there  was  no  longer  a  master  mind  to  hold  in  check 
the  flood  of  argument  and  rebuttal,  or  preserve  a 
unity  of  disagreement.  Where  before  they  had  been 
accustomed  to  take  up  each  new  development  and 
pursue  it  until  it  reached  a  state  either  too  lucid  for 
further  consideration  or  an  insolvable  problem  that 
dead-locked  conversation,  a  half  dozen  different 
arguments  sprang  up  each  night,  splitting  the  circle 
into  wrangling  factions  which  trebled  the  din  of 
voices  and  multiplied  ten-fold  the  new  note  of  bitter 
personalities  which  had  taken  the  place  of  former 
incontrovertible  logic. 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  235 

Judge  Maynard's  iron  discipline  was  gone,  and  the 
old  guard  faced  a  quite  probable  dissolution  in  the 
first  week  or  two  which  followed  his  going.  More 
from  habit  than  anything  else  they  had  waited  that 
next  night  for  him  to  come  and  clear  his  throat  pom 
pously  and  open  the  evening's  activities.  And  the 
Judge  failed  to  appear,  failed  just  as  signally  as  had 
Old  Jerry. 

And  yet  it  was  not  the  absence  of  the  former  which 
had  left  them  leaderless.  Not  one  of  them  had  real 
ized  it  the  night  before — but  that  second  night  they 
knew ! 

By  his  very  rebellion  Old  Jerry  had  won  the  thing 
which  years  of  faithful  service  had  failed  to  bring. 
He  had  dethroned  the  despot,  and  the  honors  were 
his  by  right  of  conquest. 

The  circle  knew  that  the  Judge  would  never  re 
turn;  after  one  hour  of  fruitless  waiting  that  was 
a  certainty.  But  night  after  night  they  continued  to 
gather,  stubbornly,  persistently  hopeful  that  Old 
Jerry  would  come  back.  And  in  the  meantime  they 
almost  forgot,  at  times,  Young  Denny  who  had  gone 
the  way  of  his  fathers  as  they  had  so  truly  prophe 
sied;  they  only  touched  a  little  uncomfortably  upon 
the  problem  of  the  slim,  yellow-haired  girl  alone  in 
the  battered  cottage  at  the  edge  of  the  town,  while 
they  reviewed  with  startingly  fertile  detail  and  a 
lingering  relish  that  came  very  close  to  being  hero- 


236  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

worship,  his  last  brief  remarks  which  had  left  the 
Judge  a  wreck  of  his  former  magnificence. 

If  Old  Jerry  realized  all  this  that  had  come  to 
pass  he  gave  no  outward  sign  of  such  knowledge. 
He  even  forgot  to  pause  impressively  upon  the  top 
step  of  the  post-office  those  days,  as  he  always  had 
formerly,  before  he  made  his  straight-backed  descent 
with  the  pouches  slung  over  one  shoulder.  There 
were  mornings  when  he  came  perilously  near  to  ignor 
ing  altogether  the  double  line  which,  with  a  new  def 
erence,  greeted  his  daily  passage  to  the  waiting  buggy, 
and  yet  there  was  not  one  who  dared  so  much  as  to 
whisper  that  there  was  anything  in  his  air  of  pre 
occupation  that  savored  of  studiously  planned  fore 
thought.  But  it  is  doubtful  if  he  did  realize  the 
change  that  had  taken  place,  at  least  in  that  first 
week  or  two,  for  Old  Jerry  had  much  of  a  strictly 
private  nature  to  occupy  his  mind. 

He  was  never  quite  able  to  remember  the  things 
he  had  said  that  morning  to  the  girl  with  the  too- 
white  face  and  tumbled  hair,  huddled  in  the  half- 
light  at  the  table  before  the  window,  or  to  recall 
in  any  sort  of  a  connected,  coherent  sequence  his  own 
actions  in  those  first  few  days  which  followed  it. 

It  aggravated  him  for  a  day  or  two,  this  inability 
to  piece  out  the  details;  it  brought  a  peevish  frown 
to  his  thin  face  and  a  higher,  even  more  querulous 
note  to  his  shrill  falsetto  voice,  which,  while  they 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  237 

hardly  understood  it,  nevertheless  resulted  in  an  even 
profounder  hush  in  those  respectful  ranks.  He 
couldn't  even  revisualize  it  clearly  enough  for  his 
own  private  edification — for  the  joy  of  seeing  himself 
as  others  had  seen  him. 

Nothing  remained  but  a  picture  of  Dryad  Ander 
son's  face — the  face  that  had  tried  so  hard  to  smile 
— which  she  had  lifted  to  him  that  first  morning 
when  he  entered  the  front  room  of  the  little  drab 
cottage  at  the  edge  of  town.  That  was  limned  upon 
his  brain  in  startlingly  perfect  detail  still — that  and 
one  other  thing.  The  memory  of  John  Anderson's 
pitifully  wasted  form  huddled  slack  upon  the  high 
stool,  arms  outstretched  and  silvered  head  bowed  in 
a  posture  of  utter  wearines,  remained  with  him,  too, 
clinging  in  spite  of  every  effort  to  dislodge  it. 

That  whole  week  had  not  served  to  wipe  it  out. 
Day  after  day,  as  Old  Jerry  drove  his  route  with  the 
reins  taut  in  his  nervous  hands,  it  floated  up  before 
him.  And  even  when  he  wound  the  lines  about  the 
whipstock,  letting  the  old  mare  take  her  own  pace, 
and  leaned  back,  eyes  closed,  against  the  worn  cush 
ions,  the  interior  of  that  back-roof  shop  with  its 
simple,  terribly  inert  occupant  and  countless  rows  of 
tiny  white  statues,  all  so  white  and  strangely  alike, 
crept  in  under  the  lids. 

Old  Jerry's  mail  route  suffered  that  week;  his  orig 
inal  "system"  of  mail  distribution,  of  which  he  had 


238  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

always  been  so  jealously  proud,  went  from  bad  to 
very,  very  bad,  and  from  that  to  an  impossible  worse ; 
and  yet,  while  it  became  a  veritable  lottery  for  the 
hills-folk  who  were  dependent  upon  him  whether  they 
would  receive  the  packet  of  mail  which  really  be 
longed  to  a  two-mile  distant  neighbor  or  none  at  all, 
in  one  respect  the  rural  service  improved  immensely, 
and  the  improvement — and  strangely  enough,  too — 
was  as  directly  a  result  of  that  stubborn  image  of 
John  Anderson's  bowed  head  which  persisted  in 
haunting  the  mind  of  the  servant  of  the  Gov'mint  as 
was  the  alarming  growth  of  his  lack  of  dependa 
bility. 

Day  by  day  Old  Jerry  grew  less  and  less  prone  to 
let  the  leisurely  white  mare  take  her  own  pace.  In 
stead,  he  sat  stiffly  erect  a  great  portion  of  the  time, 
driving  with  one  eye  cocked  calculatingly  upon  the 
course  of  the  sun,  and  his  mind  running  far  ahead 
of  him,  to  the  end  of  the  day's  route,  when  he  would 
have  to  turn  in  at  the  cross-road  that  toiled  up  the 
grade  to  the  wind-racked  old  Bolton  place  on  the  hill 
north  of  town. 

They  had  always  had  a  forbidding  aspect — Young 
Denny's  black,  unpainted  farmhouse  and  dilapidated 
outbuildings — even  when  he  had  been  certain  that  just 
as  surely  as  he  reached  the  crest  he  would  find  the 
boy's  big  body  silhouetted  against  the  sky-line,  waiting 
for  him,  they  had  not  been  any  too  prepossessing. 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  239 

Now  they  never  served  to  awake  in  him  any 
thing  but  actual  dread  and  distrust. 

Old  Jerry  laid  it  to  the  lonesomeness  of  the  place 
— to  the  bleak  blindness  of  the  shaded  windows  and 
the  untenanted  silence — but  he  took  good  care  that  no 
loitering  on  his  part  would  be  to  blame  for  his  arrival 
at  the  house  after  dusk. 

No  one,  not  even  he  himself,  knew  how  strong  the 
temptation  was  that  week  to  make  tentative  advances 
of  peace  to  the  members  of  the  circle  of  Tavern, 
regulars,  for  the  more  he  dwelt  upon  it  the  finer  the 
dramatic  possibilities  of  the  thing  seemed.  But  he 
had  misread  in  the  hushed  respect  of  his  former  in 
timates  a  chill  and  uncompromising  disapproval,  and 
he  had  to  fall  back  upon  a  one-sided  conversation  with 
himself  as  the  next  best  thing. 

"I  wa'n't  brought  up  to  believe  in  ghosts,"  he 
averred  to  himself  more  than  once.  "Ghosts  natural 
ly  is  superstition — and  that  ain't  accordin'  to  religion, 
not  any  way  you  look  at  it.  But  allowing  that  there 
could  be  ghosts — just  for  the  sake  of  argument  al 
lowing  that  there  is — now  what  would  there  be  to 
hinder  him  from  just  kinda  settlin'  down  up  there,  as 
you  might  say?  It's  nice  and  quiet,  ain't  it?  Sort 
of  out  of  the  way — and  more  or  less  comfortable, 
too?" 

At  that  point  in  the  mumbled  monologue  the  white- 
haired  driver  of  the  buggy  usually  paused  for  a 


24o  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

moment,  tilting  his  head,  bird-like,  to  one  side, 
wrapped  in  thought.  There  were  those  shelves  lined 
with  countless  white  figures  which  also  had  to  be  con 
sidered. 

"He  must've  worked  mighty  steady,"  he  told  him 
self  time  and  again  in  a  voice  that  was  small  with 
awe.  "He  must  hev  almost  enjoyed  workin'  at  'em, 
vo  hev  finished  so  many !  And  he  kept  at  it  nearly  all 
the  time,  I  reckon.  And  now,  that's  what  I'm  a-gettin' 
at !  Now  I  want  to  ask  how  do  we  know  he's  a-goin' 
to  quit  now — how  do  we  know  that?  We  don't  know 
it!  And  Godfrey  'Lisha,  what  better  place  would 
he  want  than  that  back  kitchen  up  there  ?  Ain't  there 
a  table  right  there  by  the  window,  all  a-waitin'  for 
him — an' — an' ' ' 

Invariably  he  broke  off  there,  to  peer  furtively  at 
the  sun,  before  he  whipped  up  his  horse. 

"Git  along!"  he  admonished  her  earnestly,  then, 
"Git  along — you  !  Nobody  believes  in  ghosts — least 
wise,  I  don't.  But  they  ain't  no  sense  nor  reason  in 
just  a-killin'  time  on  the  road,  neither.  And  I  ain't 
one  to  tempt  Providence — not  to  any  great  nor  dam- 
igin'  extent,  I  ain't!" 

And  yet  in  spite  of  all  the  uneasiness  which  the 
combination  of  the  dark  house  and  the  persistent 
image  of  the  little,  worn-out  stone-cutter  kept  alive  in 
him,  in  so  far  as  Young  Denny's  team  of  horses  was 
concerned,  and  the  scanty  rest  of  the  stock  which  the 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  241 

boy  had  left  in  his  care,  Old  Jerry  kept  strictly  to  the 
letter  of  his  agreement.  At  the  most  it  meant  no 
more  than  a  little  readjustment  of  his  daily  schedule, 
which  he  high-handedly  rearranged  to  suit  his  better 
convenience. 

But  all  the  rest  which  he  had  promised  so  fervidly 
to  carry  out — the  message  which  he  had  meant  to  de 
liver  the  very  next  morning  after  the  boy's  departure 
and  the  explanation  of  Young  Denny's  bruised  face, 
even  a  diplomatic  tender  of  the  damp  wad  of  bills 
which  Denny  had  pushed  in  his  hand — had  somehow 
been  allowed  to  wait.  For  it  had  proved  to  be  any 
thing  but  the  admirably  simple  thing  it  had  seemed 
to  the  old  man  when  he  had  volubly  acquiesced  to  the 
plan. 

He  had  forgotten  it  that  first  morning.  With  the 
well-planned  opening  sentence  fairly  trembling  upon 
his  tongue-tip  when  he  opened  the  door,  the  whole 
thing  had  been  swept  utterly  from  his  mind.  And  in 
the  press  of  events  that  followed  he  never  so  much 
as  thought  of  it  again  for  days.  When  the  memory 
of  it  did  return,  a  week  later,  somehow  he  found  it 
almost  impossible  to  introduce  the  subject — at  least 
impossible  to  introduce  it  gracefully. 

That  was  one  of  the  reasons  for  his  failure  to  exe 
cute  the  mission  entrusted  to  him.  The  other  reason, 
which  was  far  weightier,  so  far  as  Old  Jerry  was 
concerned,  was  even  harder  to  define.  He  blamed  it 


242  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

directly  to  the  attitude  of  the  girl  with  the  tumbled 
yellow  hair  and  blue  eyes,  which  were  never  quite 
the  same  shade  of  purple.  More  than  a  small  pro 
portion  of  the  remarks  which  he  had  prepared  be 
forehand  to  deliver  to  her  had  consisted  of  reproof 
— not  too  harsh,  but  for  all  that  a  trifle  severe,  maybe 
— of  her  hasty  and  utterly  unfair  judgment  of  Young 
Denny.  That,  he  had  assured  himself,  was  only  just 
and  merited,  and  could  only  prove,  eventually,  to 
have  been  for  the  best.  But  she  never  gave  him 
a  chance  to  deliver  it.  One  moment  of  sadness  on 
her  part  would  have  been  sufficient  excuse.  If  he 
could  have  surprised  her  just  once  gazing  at  him 
from  moist,  questioning  eyes,  he  felt  that  that  would 
have  been  enough  proof  of  contrition  and  humble 
meekness  of  spirit  on  her  part.  But  he  never 
did. 

Instead  Old  Jerry  had  never  seen  so  astounding  a 
change  take  place  in  any  human  being  as  that  which 
came  over  her  day  by  day.  By  the  end  of  that  first 
week  the  pallor  had  gone  entirely  from  her  cheeks. 
The  deep  dark  circles  which  had  rimmed  the  wet 
eyes  which  she  had  lifted  to  him  that  first  morning 
disappeared  so  entirely  that  it  was  hard  to  remember 
that  they  had  ever  been  there  at  all.  Even  the  lithely 
slender  body  seemed  fuller,  rounder.  To  every  out 
ward  appearance  at  least  Old  Jerry  had  to  confess 
to  himself  that  he  had  never  seen  a  more  supremely 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  243 

contented,  thoroughly  happy  creature  than  Dryad 
Anderson  was  at  that  week's  end. 

And  it  irritated  him;  it  almost  angered  him  at 
times.  Remembering  his  own  travail  of  spirit,  the 
self-inflicted  agony  of  mind  which  he  had  undergone 
that  day  when  he  had  first  looked  square  into  the 
eyes  of  his  own  soul  and  acknowledge  his  years  of 
guilty  unfairness  to  the  lonely  boy  on  the  hill,  he  shut 
his  lips  tight  upon  the  message  he  might  have  de 
livered  and  waited,  stubbornly,  for  her  to  show  some 
sign  of  repentance. 

For  a  day  or  two  a  mental  contemplation  of  this 
necessarily  severe  course  brought  him  moments  of 
comparative  peace  of  mind.  It  justified  in  a  meas 
ure,  at  least,  his  own  remissness,  and  yet  even  that 
mind-state  at  times  was  rudely  shaken.  At  each  day's 
end,  after  he  had  made  his  reluctant  ascent  of  the 
hill  which  led  up  to  Young  Denny's  unlighted  house, 
and  a  far  speedier,  none  too  dignified  return,  the 
little  driver  of  the  squealing  buggy  made  it  a  point  to 
turn  off  and  stop  for  a  moment  or  two  before  the 
gate  of  John  Anderson's  cottage.  At  first  the  girl's 
real  need  of  him  prompted  this  daily  detour;  then, 
when  the  actual  need  no  longer  existed,  he  excused 
the  visit  on  the  plea  of  her  lonesomeness  and  his 
promise  to  Denny  to  look  after  her. 

His  own  loneliness — for  he  had  never  been  so 
lonely  before  in  all  his  lonely  life — and  the  other  and 


244  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

real  reason  for  this  habit,  he  never  allowed  himself 
to  scrutinize  too  closely.  But  each  day  he  sat  a  little 
forward  on  the  buggy  seat  as  soon  as  he  had  turned 
the  last  sharp  curve  in  the  road  and  stared  eagerly 
ahead  through  the  afternoon  dusk  until  he  made  out 
her  slim  figure  leaning  against  the  fence  waiting  for 
him.  And  every  afternoon,  after  he  had  pulled  the 
shuffling  horse  to  a  standstill,  he  bent  down  from 
his  vantage  point  on  the  high  seat  to  scan  her  up 
turned  face  minutely,  almost  craftily  at  times,  for 
some  tell-tale  trace  of  tears  on  her  long  lashes,  or  a 
possible  quiver  of  her  lips,  or  a  suspicious  droop  in 
her  boyish  shoulders.  And  he  never  discovered  either 
the  one  or  the  other. 

It  was  at  such  moments  that  his  peace  of  mind 
suffered,  for  no  sane  man  could  ever  have  read,  by 
any  stretching  of  the  imagination,  anything  akin  to 
sorrow  or  sadness  in  the  low  laugh  with  which  she 
invariably  met  his  scrutiny.  It  fairly  bubbled  joy. 
Each  day  Old  Jerry  found  her  only  happy — offen 
sively  happy — and  where  he  had  been  secretly  watch 
ing  her  for  one  betraying  sign  he  became  uneasily 
conscious  after  a  time  that  very  often  she,  too,  seemed 
to  be  scanning  his  own  face  as  if  she  were  trying  to 
penetrate  into  the  inner  tumult  of  perplexities  behind 
his  seamed  forehead.  Some  days  he  was  almost  cer 
tain  that  there  was  a  calculating  light  in  her  steady 
eyes — a  hint  of  half-hidden  delight  in  something  he 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  245 

couldn't  understand — and  it  worried  him.  It  bothered 
him  almost  as  much  as  did  the  unvaried  formula  with 
which  she  greeted  him  every  afternoon. 

"Have  you  any  news  for  me  to-day?"  she  always 
asked  him.  "Surely  you've  something  new  to  tell  me 
this  afternoon — now,  haven't  you?" 

The  tone  in  which  she  made  the  query  was  never 
anything  but  disarming;  it  was  quite  childishly  wheed 
ling  and  innocently  eager,  he  thought.  But  reiterated 
from  day  to  day  it  wore  on  his  nerves  after  a  while. 
Added  to  the  something  he  sometimes  thought  he 
caught  glimmering  in  her  tip-tilted  eyes,  it  made  him 
more  than  a  little  uncomfortable.  He  fell  back  upon 
a  quibble  to  dodge  the  issue. 

"Was  you  expectin'  a  letter?"  he  always  count 
ered. 

This  daily  veiled  tilt  of  wits  might  have  gone  on 
indefinitely  had  not  a  new  development  presented  it 
self  which  threw  an  entirely  different  aspect  upon  the 
whole  affair. 

A  fortnight  had  elapsed  since  Denny  Bolton*s  mys 
terious  departure  from  the  village  when  it  happened. 
As  usual,  after  the  day's  duties  were  completed  with 
his  hurried  return  from  the  Bolton  homestead,  Old 
Jerry  turned  off  at  the  crossroads  to  stop  for  a  mo 
ment  before  the  cottage  squatting  in  its  acre  of  deso 
late  garden.  He  didn't  even  straighten  up  in  his  seat 
that  afternoon  to  gaze  ahead  of  him,  so  certain  he 


246  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

had  grown  that  she  would  be  waiting  for  him,  a  hint 
of  laughter  in  her  eyes  and  the  same  disturbing  ques 
tion  on  her  lips,  and  not  until  the  fat  animal  between 
the  shafts  had  stopped  of  her  own  accord  before  the 
straggling  fence  did  he  realize  that  the  girl  was  not 
there.  Then  her  absence  smote  him  full. 

It  frightened  him.  Right  from  the  first  he  was 
conscious  of  impending  disaster  born  quite  entirely 
of  the  knowledge  of  his  own  guilt.  The  front  door 
of  the  house  was  open  and  after  fruitless  minutes  of 
panicky  pondering  he  clambered  down  and  advanced 
uncertainly  toward  it.  His  shadow  across  the  thresh 
old  heralded  his  reluctant  coming,  and  Dryad  turned 
from  the  half-filled  box  upon  the  table  over  which  she 
had  been  bending  and  nodded  to  him  almost  before 
he  caught  sight  of  her. 

That  little,  intimately  brief  inclination  of  the  head 
was  her  only  greeting.  With  hands  grasping  each 
side  of  the  door-frame  Old  Jerry  stood  there  and 
gazed  about  the  room.  It  had  never  been  anything 
but  bare  and  empty  looking — now  with  the  few  larger 
pieces  of  furniture  which  it  had  contained  all  stacked 
in  one  corner  and  the  smaller  articles  already  stored 
away  in  a  half-dozen  boxes,  the  last  of  which  was 
holding  the  girl's  absorbed  attention,  it  would  have 
been  barnlike  had  it  not  been  so  small.  From  where 
he  stood  Old  Jerry  could  see  through  into  the  smaller 
back-room  workshop.  Even  its  shelves  were  empty 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  247 

— entirely  stripped  of  their  rows  of  tiny  white  woman- 
figures. 

He  paled  as  he  grasped  the  ominous  import  of  it; 
he  tried  to  speak  unconcernedly,  but  his  voice  was 
none  too  steady. 

"So  you're  a-house-cleanin',  be  you?"  he  asked 
jauntily.  "Ain't  you  commencin'  a  little  early?" 

He  was  uncomfortably  conscious  of  that  interroga 
tive  gleam  in  Dryad's  glance — that  amused  glimmer 
which  he  couldn't  quite  fathom — when  she  turned 
her  head.  She  was  smiling,  too,  a  little — smiling  with 
her  lips  as  well  as  with  her  eyes. 

"No-o-o,"  she  stated  with  preoccupied  lack  of  em 
phasis,  as  she  bent  again  over  the  box.  "No — I'm 
packing  up." 

Old  Jerry  had  known  that  that  would  be  her  an 
swer.  He  had  been  certain  of  it.  The  other  inter 
pretation — the  only  other  possible  one  which  could 
be  put  upon  the  dismantled  room — had  been  nothing 
more  or  less  than  a  momentary  and  desperate  grasp 
ing  at  a  straw. 

For  a  while  he  was  very,  very  quiet,  wondering 
just  what  it  was  in  her  mind  which  made  her  so  cheer 
fully  indifferent  to  his  presence.  She  filled  that  last 
box  while  he  stood  there  in  the  doorway,  stood  off 
to  survey  her  work  critically,  and  then  picked  up  a 
hammer  that  lay  on  the  table  and  prepared  to  nail 
down  the  lid. 


248  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

"I've  hit  my  finger  four  times  to-day,"  she  apprised 
him  between  strokes  as  she  drove  the  first  nail  home. 
"Four  times  this  afternoon — and  always  the  same 
finger,  too!" 

The  very  irrelevancy  of  the  statement,  coupled  with 
her  calm  serenity,  was  appalling  to  the  old  man.  She 
didn't  so  much  as  lift  her  eyes  when  she  told  him, 
but  when  the  lid  was  fastened  she  whirled  suddenly 
with  that  impetuosity  which  always  startled  him  more 
than  a  little,  her  hands  tightly  clasped  in  front  of 
her,  and  fairly  beamed  at  him. 

"There,  that  finishes  everything — everything  but 
the  pots  and  pans,"  she  cried.  "And  I'll  need  them 
a  little  longer,  anyway,  won't  I  ?  But  maybe  I  won't 
take  them  with  me,  either — they're  pretty  old  and 
worn  out.  What  do  you  think?" 

Old  Jerry  cleared  his  throat.  He  ignored  her  ques 
tion. 

"Ain't — ain't  this  a  trifle  sudden,"  he  faltered — 
"jest  a  trifle?" 

She  shook  her  head  again  and  laughed  softly,  as 
if  from  sheer  joyous  excitement. 

"No,"  she  said.  "No,  I've  been  planning  it  for 
days  and  days — oh,  for  more  than  a  week!" 

Then  she  seemed  to  catch  for  the  first  time  the 
dreariness  of  his  whole  attitude — the  dejection  of 
his  spare  angular  body  and  sparrowlike,  anxious  faCe- 

"You're  sorry  I'm  going,"  she  accused  him 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  249 

and  she  leaned  toward  him  a  little,  eyes  quizzically 
half  closed.  "I  knew  you'd  be  sorry!"  And  then, 
swiftly,  "Aren't  you?" 

Old  Jerry  scraped  first  one  foot  and  then  the  other. 

"I  reckon  I  be,"  he  admitted  faintly.  "Kinda  sur 
prised,  too.  I — I  wa'n't  exactly  calculating  on  any 
thing  like  this.  It — it's  kinda  thrown  me  off  my 
reckonin' !  Are  you — are  you  figurin'  on  goin'  right 
away?" 

Dryad  spun  about  and  threw  her  head  far  on  one 
side  to  scan  the  whole  bare  room. 

"Tomorrow,  maybe,"  she  decided,  when  she 
turned  back  to  him.  "Or  the  next  day  at  the  very 
latest.  You  see,  everything  is  about  ready  now,  and 
there  isn't  any  reason  for  me  to  stay,  on  and  on, 
here — is  there?" 

A  little  tired  note  crept  into  the  last  words,  edging 
the  question  with  a  suggestion  of  wistfulness.  It 
was  something  not  so  very  different  from  that  for 
which  Old  Jerry  had  been  stubbornly  waiting  through 
out  those  entire  two  weeks,  but  he  failed  to  catch 
it  at  that  moment.  He  had  heard  nothing  but  her 
statement  that  she  meant  to  remain  at  least  another 
day.  It  made  it  possible  for  him  to  breathe  deeply 
once  again. 

Much  could  happen  in  twenty-four  hours.  She 
might  even  change  her  mind,  he  desperately  assured 
himself — women  were  always  doing  something  like 


250  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

that,  wern't  they?  But  even  if  she  did  go  it  was 
a  reprieve;  it  gave  him  one  last  opportunity.  Now, 
for  the  present,  all  he  wanted  was  to  get  away — to 
get  away  by  himself  and  think!  On  heavily  drag 
ging  feet  he  turned  to  go  back  down  the  rotting 
boardwalk. 

"I — I'll  drop  in  on  you  tomorrow,"  he  suggested, 
pausing  at  the  steps.  "I'll  stop  in  on  my  way  'round 
— to — to  say  good-by." 

The  girl  stood  in  the  doorway  smiling  down  at 
him.  He  couldn't  meet  her  eyes.  As  it  was  he  felt 
that  their  gaze  went  through  and  through  him.  And 
so  he  did  not  see  her  half  lift  her  arms  to  him  in  a 
sudden  quite  wonderful  gesture  of  contrite  and  re 
morseful  reassurance.  He  did  not  hear  the  first 
of  the  impulsive  torrent  of  words  which  she  barely 
smothered  behind  lips  that  trembled  a  little.  His 
head  was  bowed  so  that  he  did  not  see  her  eyes,  and 
if  he  could  but  have  seen  them  and  nothing  else,  he 
would  have  understood,  without  the  words  or  the 
gesture. 

Instead  he  stood  there,  plucking  undecidedly  at 
his  sleeve. 

"Because  I — I  wouldn't  like  to  hev  you  go — with 
out  seein'  you  again,"  he  went  on  slowly — "without 
a  chance  to  tell  you  something — er — to  tell  you  good- 
by." 

He  didn't  wait  for  her  answer.    At  the  far  bend 


CNCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  25 1 

in  the  road,  when  he  looked  back,  she  was  still  there 
in  the  doorway  watching  him. 

He  was  not  quite  certain,  but  he  thought  she  threw 
up  one  thin  white  arm  to  him  as  he  passed  out  of 
sight. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

IT  rained  that  next  day — a  dull,  steady  downpour 
that  slanted  in  upon  a  warm,  south  wind.  Old 
Jerry  was  glad  of  the  storm.  The  leaden  gray- 
ness  of  the  low-hanging  clouds  matched  perfectly  his 
own  frame  of  mind,  and  the  cold  touch  of  the  rain 
soothed  his  hot  head,  too,  as  it  swept  in  under  the 
buggy  hood,  and  helped  him  to  think  a  little  better. 
There  was  much  that  needed  readjusting. 

Throughout  the  early  hours  of  that  morning  he 
drove  with  a  newspaper  spread  flat  upon  his  knees — 
the  afternoon  edition  of  the  previous  day,  which,  in 
the  face  of  other  matters,  he  had  had  neither  the 
necessary  time  nor  enthusiasm  to  examine  until  it 
was  an  entire  twelve  hours  old.  At  any  other  time 
the  contents  of  that  red-headlined  sheet  would  have 
set  his  pulses  throbbing  in  a  veritable  ecstasy  of 
excitement. 

For  two  whole  weeks  he  had  been  watching  for 
it,  scanning  every  inch  of  type  for  the  news  it  brought, 
but  now  that  account  of  Young  Denny's  first  match, 
with  a  little,  square  picture  of  him  inset  at  the  column 
head,  fell  woefully  flat  so  far  as  he  was  concerned. 

Not    that    the    plump    newspaperman    who    had 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  253 

written  the  account  of  that  first  victorious  bout  had 
achieved  anything  but  a  masterpiece  of  sensational 
ism.  Every  line  was  alive  with  action,  every  phrase 
seemed  to  thud  with  the  actual  shock  of  contest.  And 
there  was  that  last  paragraph,  too,  which  hailed 
Denny — "The  Pilgrim,"  they  called  him  in  the  paper, 
but  that  couldn't  deceive  Old  Jerry — as  the  new 
comer  for  whom  the  public  had  been  waiting  so  long, 
and,  toward  the  end,  so  hopelessly. 

It  was  really  a  perfect  thing  of  its  kind — but  Old 
Jerry  could  not  enjoy  it  that  morning,  even  though 
it  was  Denny  Bolton's  first  triumph,  to  be  shared 
by  him  alone  in  equal  proportion.  Instead  of  sending 
creepy  thrills  chasing  up  and  down  his  spine  it  merely 
intensified  his  doleful  bitterness  of  spirit.  Long  be 
fore  noon  he  breathed  a  leaden  heavy  sigh,  refolded 
the  sodden  sheet  and  put  it  away  in  the  box  beneath 
the  seat. 

The  old  mare  took  her  own  pace  that  day.  In  a 
brain  that  was  already  burdened  until  it  fairly  ached 
there  was  no  room  for  the  image  of  the  silver-haired 
stone-cutter  which  had  made  for  speed  on  other  oc 
casions.  He  had  plenty  to  occupy  his  mind  which 
was  of  a  strictly  immediate  nature. 

A  dozen  times  that  morning  Old  Jerry  asked  him 
self  what  he  would  tell  Dryad  Anderson  that  night, 
when  he  stopped  at  the  little  drab  cottage  at  the 
route's  end,  ostensibly  to  bid  her  good-by.  He  asked 


254  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

himself,  in  desperate  reiteration,  how  he  would  tell, 
for  he  knew  that  the  long  delay  in  the  delivery  of 
Denny's  message  was  going  to  need  more  than  a  little 
explanation.  And  when  he  had  wrestled  with  the 
question  until  his  eyes  stung  and  his  temples  throbbed, 
and  still  could  find  no  solution  for  it,  he  turned  help 
lessly  to  the  consideration  of  another  phase  of  the 
problem. 

He  fell  to  tormenting  himself  with  the  possibility 
of  her  having  gone  already.  Everything  in  those  bare 
rooms  had  been  packed — there  was  no  real  reason 
for  the  girl  to  remain  another  hour.  Perhaps  she 
had  reconsidered,  changed  her  mind,  and  departed 
even  earlier  than  she  had  planned,  and  if  she  had — 
if  she  had 

Whenever  he  reached  that  point,  dumbly  he  bowed 
his  head. 

It  was  dark  when  he  turned  off  the  main  road  and 
started  up  the  long  hill  toward  the  Bolton  place- 
not  just  dark,  but  a  blackness  so  profound  that  the 
mare  between  the  shafts  was  only  a  half  formless 
splotch  of  gray  as  she  plodded  along  ahead.  Even 
his  dread  of  the  place,  which  formerly  had  been  so 
acute,  did  not  penetrate  the  mental  misery  that 
wrapped  him;  he  did  not  vouchsafe  so  much  as  one 
uneasy  glance  ahead  until  a  glimmer  of  light  which 
seemed  to  flash  out  from  the  rear  of  the  house  fairly 
shocked  him  into  conscious  recollection  of  it  all. 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  255 

He  sprang  erect  then,  spilling  a  cataract  of  water 
from  his  hat  brim  in  a  chill  trickle  down  the  back 
of  his  neck,  and  barked  a  shrilly  staccato  command 
at  the  placid  horse.  The  creaking  buggy  came  to  a 
standstill. 

He  tried  to  persuade  himself  it  was  a  reflection 
of  the  village  lights  upon  the  window  panes  which 
had  startled  him,  but  it  was  only  a  half-hearted  effort. 
No  one  could  mistake  the  glow  that  filtered  out  of 
the  black  bulk  of  the  rear  of  the  house  for  anything 
save  the  thing  it  was.  Half  way  up  the  hill  he  sat 
there,  hunched  forward  in  a  hopeless  huddle,  his  eyes 
protected  by  cupped  palms,  and  stared  and  stared. 

Once  before,  the  evening  of  that  day  when  the 
Judge's  exhibition  of  Young  Denny's  bruised  face  had 
been  more  than  his  curiosity  could  endure,  he  had 
approached  that  bleak  farmhouse  in  fear  and  trem 
bling,  but  the  trepidation  of  that  night,  half  real,  half 
a  child  of  his  own  erratic  imagination,  bulked  small 
beside  the  throat-tightening  terror  of  this  moment. 

And  yet  he  did  not  turn  back.  The  thought  that 
he  had  only  to  wheel  his  buggy  and  beat  as  silent  a 
retreat  as  his  ungreased  axles  would  permit  never 
occurred  to  him.  It  was  much  as  if  his  harrowed 
spirit,  driven  hither  and  yon  without  mercy  through 
out  the  whole  day  long,  had  at  last  backed  into  a 
corner,  in  a  mood  of  last-ditch,  crazy  desperation,  and 
bared  its  teeth. 


256  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

"If  he  is  up  there,"  he  stated  doggedly,  "if  he 
is  up  there,  a-putterin'  with  his  everlasting  lump  o' 
clay,  he  ain't  got  no  more  right  up  there  than  I  hev ! 
He's  just  a-trespassin',  that's  what  he's  a-doin'.  I'm 
the  legal  custodian  of  the  place — it  was  put  into 
my  hands — and  I'll  tell  him  so.  I'll  give  him  a 
chance  to  git  out — or — or  I'll  hev  the  law  on 
him!" 

The  plump  mare  went  forward  again.  There  was 
something  terribly  uncanny,  even  in  her  relentless  ad 
vance,  but  the  old  man  clung  to  the  reins  and  let 
her  go  without  a  word.  When  she  reached  the  top 
she  slumped  lazily  to  a  standstill  and  fell  contentedly 
to  nibbling  grass. 

The  light  in  the  window  was  much  brighter,  viewed 
from  that  lessened  distance — thin,  yellow  streaks 
of  brightness  that  quivered  a  little  from  the  edges 
of  a  drawn  shade.  An  uneven  wick  might  easily  have 
accounted  for  the  unsteadiness,  but  in  that  flickering 
pallor  Old  Jerry  found  something  ominously  un 
healthy — almost  uncanny. 

But  he  went  on.  He  clambered  down  from  his 
high  seat  and  went  doggedly  across — steadily — un 
til  his  hand  found  the  door-latch.  And  he  gave  him 
self  no  time  for  reconsideration  or  retreat.  The  metal 
catch  yielded  all  too  readily  under  the  pressure  of 
his  fingers,  and  when  the  door  swung  in  he  followed 
it  over  the  threshold. 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  257 

The  light  blinded  him  for  a  moment — dazzled  him 
— yet  not  so  completely  but  that  he  saw,  too  clearly 
for  any  mistake,  the  figure  that  had  turned  from  the 
stove  to  greet  him.  Dryad  Anderson's  face  was  pink- 
tinted  from  forehead  to  chin  by  the  heat  of  the  glow 
ing  lids — her  lips  parted  a  little  until  the  small  teeth 
showed  white  beyond  their  red  fullness. 

In  her  too-tight,  boyish  blouse,  gaping  at  the  throat, 
she  stood  there  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  hands 
bracketed  on  delicate  hips,  and  smiled  at  him.  And 
behind  her  the  lamp  in  its  socket  on  the  wall  smoked 
a  trifle  from  a  too-high  wick. 

Old  Jerry  stood  and  gazed  at  her,  one  hand  still 
clutching  the  door  latch.  In  one  great  illuminating 
flash  he  saw  it  all — understood  just  what  it  meant 
— and  with  that  understanding  a  hot  wave  of  rage 
began  to  well  up  within  him — a  fierce  and  righteous 
wrath,  borne  of  all  that  day's  unnecessary  agony  and 
those  last  few  minutes  of  fear. 

It  was  a  hoax  on  her  part.  She  had  been  trifling 
with  him  the  day  before,  just  as  she  had  been  playing 
fast  and  loose  with  his  peace  of  mind  for  days.  An 
ejaculation  bordering  close  upon  actual  profanity 
trembled  upon  his  lips,  but  a  draft  of  cold  air  sweep 
ing  in  at  the  open  doorway  set  the  lamp  flickering 
wildly  and  brought  him  back  a  little  to  himself.  His 
eyes  went  again  to  the  girl  in  the  middle  of  the  floor. 
She  was  rocking  too  and  fro  upon  the  balls  of  her 


25 8  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

feet,  every  inch  of  her  fairly  pulsing  with  mocking, 
malicious  delight. 

She  waited  for  him  to  speak,  and  he,  stiff  of  back 
and  grim  of  face,  stood  stonily  silent.  She  seemed 
all  innocently  unaware  of  his  unconcealed  disgust. 
The  quizzical  smile  only  widened  before  the  chilly 
threat  of  his  beady  eyes  and  ruffled  forehead.  And 
then,  all  in  one  breath,  her  little  pouted  chin  went  up 
and  she  burst  into  a  low  gurgle  of  utter  enjoyment 
of  the  tableau. 

"Well,"  she  demanded,  "aren't  you  ever  going  to 
say  anything?  Here  I  am!  I — I  decided  to  move 
today — there  really  wasn't  any  use  of  waiting. 
Aren't  you  surprised — just  a  little?" 

The  meekness  of  her  voice,  so  wholly  belied  by 
her  eyes  and  lips  and  swaying  boylike  body,  only 
tightened  the  old  man's  mouth.  He  was  still  review 
ing  all  that  long  day's  mental  torment,  counting  the 
wasted  hours  which  might  have  been  applied  to  a 
soul-satisfying  feast  upon  Morehouse's  red-headlined 
account  in  the  paper.  No  veteran  had  ever  marched 
more  hopelessly  into  a  cannon's  mouth  than  he  had 
approached  the  door  of  that  kitchen. 

And  yet  a  flood  of  thankfulness,  the  direct  reflex 
of  his  first  impotent  rage,  threatened  to  sweep  up 
and  drown  the  fires  of  his  wrath.  Already  he  wanted 
to  slump  down  into  a  chair  and  rest  weary  body  and 
wearier,  relieved  brain;  he  wanted  a  minute  or  two 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  259 

in  which  to  realize  that  she  was  there — that  his  un 
fulfilled  promise  was  still  far  from  being  actual  catas 
trophe — and  he  would  not  let  himself.  Not  yet! 

She  had  been  playing  with  him — playing  with  him 
cat-and-mouse  fashion.  The  birdlike  features  which 
had  begun  to  relax  hardened  once  more. 

"Maybe  I  be,"  he  answered  her  question  with  non 
committal  grimness.  "Maybe  I  be — and  maybe  I 
ain't!"  And  then,  almost  beligerently:  "Your 
lamp's  a-smokin' !" 

She  turned  and  strained  on  tiptoe  and  lowered  it. 

"I  thought  you  would  be,"  she  agreed,  too  gravely 
for  his  complete  comfort,  when  she  had  accomplished 
the  readjustment  of  the  wick  to  her  entire  satisfac 
tion.  "For,  you  know,  you  seemed  a  little  worried 
and — well,  not  just  happy,  yesterday,  when  I  told  you 
I  was  going  to  move  I — I  felt  sure  you  would  be 
glad  to  find  that  I  hadn't  gone  far!" 

Old  Jerry  remembered  at  that  moment  and  he 
removed  his  soaked  hat.  He  turned,  too,  and  drew 
up  a  chair.  It  gave  him  an  opportunity  to  avoid 
those  moistly  mirthful  eyes  for  a  moment.  Seated 
and  comfortably  tilted  back  against  the  wall  he  felt 
less  ill  at  ease — felt  better  able  to  deal  with  the 
situation  as  it  should  be  dealt  with. 

For  a  moment  her  presence  there  had  only  con 
founded  him — that  was  when  the  wave  of  righteous 
wrath  had  swept  him — but  at  the  worst  he  had 


260  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

counted  it  nothing  more  than  a  too  far-fetched  bit  of 
fantastic  mischief  conceived  to  tantalize  him. 

Her  last  statement  awakened  in  him  a  preposter 
ously  impossible  suspicion  which,  now  that  he  had  a 
chance  to  glance  about  the  room,  was  confirmed  in 
stantly — absolutely.  It  was  astounding — utterly  un 
believable — and  yet  on  all  the  walls,  in  every  corner, 
there  were  the  indisputable  evidences  of  her  intention 
to  remain  indefinitely — permanently. 

At  least  it  gave  him  an  opening. 

"You  don't  mean  to  say,"  he  began  challengingly, 
"you  don't  mean  to  tell  me  that  you're  a-figurin'  on 
stayin'  here — for  good?" 

She  pursed  her  lips  and  nodded  vigorously  at  him 
until  the  loosened  wisps  of  hair  half  hid  her  eyes.  It 
was  quite  as  though  she  were  pleased  beyond  belief 
that  he  had  got  at  the  gist  of  it  all  so  speedily. 

"Yes,  for  good,"  she  explained  ecstatically,  "or," 
more  slowly,  "or  at  least  for  quite  a  while.  You 
see  I  like  it  here !  It's  just  like  home  already — just 
like  I  always  imagined  home  would  be  when  I  really 
had  one,  anyway.  There's  so  much  room — and  it's 
warm,  too.  And  then,  the  floors  don't  squeak,  either. 
I  don't  think  I  care  for  squeaky  floors — do  you?" 

A  quick  widening  of  those  almost  purple  eyes  ac 
companied  the  last  question. 

The  little  white-haired  figure  in  the  back-tilted  chair 
snorted.  He  tried  to  disguise  it  behind  a  belated 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  261 

cough,  but  it  was  quite  palpably  a  snort  of  out 
raged  patience  and  dignity.  She  couldn't  fool  him 
any  longer — not  even  with  that  wide-eyed  appealingly 
infantile  stare.  He  knew,  without  looking  closer, 
that  there  was  a  flare  of  mirth  hidden  within  its 
velvet  duskiness.  And  there  was  only  one  way  to 
deal  with  such  shallowness — that  was  with  firm  and 
unmistakable  severity.  He  leaned  forward  and 
pounded  one  meager  knee  for  emphasis  as  Judge 
Maynard  had  often  done. 

"You  can't  do  it!"  he  emphasized  flatly,  his  thin 
voice  almost  gloatingly  triumphant.  "Whatever  put 
it  into  your  head  I  don't  know — but  don't  you  realize 
what  you're  a-doin',  comin'  up  here  like  this  and 
movin'  in,  high-handed,  without  speaking  to  nobody? 
Well,  you've  made  yourself  liable  to  trespass — that's 
what  you've  done !  Trespass  and  house-breaking, 
too,  I  guess,  without  interviewin'  me  first !" 

The  violet  eyes  flew  wider.  Old  Jerry  was  certain 
that  he  caught  a  gleam  of  apprehension  in  them. 
She  took  one  faltering  step  toward  him  and  then 
stopped,  irresolute,  apparently.  Somehow  the  mute 
appeal  in  that  whole  poise  was  too  much,  even  for 
his  outraged  dignity.  Maybe  he  had  gone  a  little 
too  far.  He  attempted  to  temper  the  harshness  of 
it. 

"Not  a-course,"  he  added  deprecatingly,  "meanin' 
that  anything  like  that  would  be  likely  to  happen  to 


262  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

you.  Seein'  as  you  didn't  exactly  understand,  I 
wouldn't  take  no  steps  against  you."  And,  even  more 
encouragingly,  "I  doubt  if  I'd  hev  any  legal  right  to 
proceed  against  anybody  without  seeing  Den — with 
out  seeing  the  rightful  owner  first." 

He  bit  his  tongue  painfully  in  covering  that  slip, 
but  Dryad  had  not  seemed  to  notice  it.  She  crossed 
back  to  the  stove  and  in  an  absolute  silence  fell  to 
prodding  with  a  fork  beneath  steaming  lids. 

"I  really  should  have  thought  of  that  myself," 
she  murmured  pensively.  "After  seeing  you  return 
from  here  every  afternoon,  I  should  have  known  he 
• — the  place  had  been  left  in  your  care." 

It  rather  startled  him — that  half  absent-minded 
statement  of  hers — it  disturbed  his  confidence  in  his 
command  of  the  situation.  Sitting  there  he  told  him 
self  that  he  should  have  realized  long  ago  that  she 
could  easily  watch  the  hill  road  from  the  door  of  the 
little  drab  cottage  huddled  at  the  end  of  Judge  May- 
nard's  acres. 

He  began  to  feel  guilty  again — began  to  wonder 
just  how  much  his  daily  visits  to  Denny's  place  had 
led  her  to  suspect.  But  Dryad  did  not  wait  for 
any  reply.  She  had  turned  once  more  until  she  was 
facing  him,  her  lips  beginning  to  curl  again,  petal-like, 
at  the  corners. 

"But  you  would  have  to  interview  the  real  owner 
first?"  she  inquired  insistently.  "You  do  think  that 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  263 

would  be  necessary  before  you  could  make  me  leave, 
don't  you?" 

He  nodded — nodded  warily.  Something  in  her 
bearing  put  him  on  his  guard.  And  then,  before  he 
knew  how  it  had  happened,  a  little  rush  had  carried 
her  across  the  room  and  she  was  kneeling  at  his  feet, 
her  face  upflung  to  him. 

"Then  you'll  have  to  interview  me," — the  words 
trembled  madly,  breathlessly,  from  her  lips.  "You'll 
have  to  interview  me — because — because  I  own  it  all 
—all — every  bit  of  it!" 

And  she  laughed  up  at  him — laughed  with  a  queer, 
choking,  strained  note  catching  in  her  throat  up  into 
his  blankly  incredulous  face.  He  felt  her  thin  young 
arms  tighten  about  him;  he  even  half  caught  her 
next  hysterical  words  in  spite  of  his  amazement,  and 
for  all  that  they  were  quite  meaningless  to  him. 

"You  dear,"  she  rushed  on.  "O,  you  dear,  dear 
stubborn  old  fraud!  I  punished  you,  didn't  I?  You 
were  frightened — afraid  I'd  go !  You  know  you 
were  !  As  if  I'd  ever  leave  until — until — "  She 
failed  to  finish  that  sentence.  "But  I'll  never,  never 
tease  you  so  again !" 

Then  there  came  that  lightning-like  change  of  mood 
which  always  left  him  breathless  in  his  inability  to 
follow  it.  The  mirth  went  out  of  her  eyes — her  lips 
drooped  and  began  to  work  strangely  as  she  knelt  and 
gazed  up  at  him. 


264  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

"I  bought  his  mortgage,"  she  told  him  slowly.  "I 
bought  it  from  Judge  Maynard  a  week  ago  with  part 
of  the  money  he  gave  me  for  our  place  there  below 
his.  He  was  very  generous.  Somehow  I  feel  that 
he  paid  me — much  more  than  it  was  worth.  He's 
always  wanted  it  and — and  I — there  wasn't  any  need 
for  me  to  stay  there  any  more,  was  there  ?" 

Old  Jerry  had  never  seen  a  face  so  terribly  earnest 
before — so  hungrily  wistful — but  it  was  the  light  that 
glowed  in  that  kneeling  girl's  eyes  that  held  him 
dumb.  It  left  him  completely  incapable  of  coherent 
thought,  yet  mechanically  his  mind  leaped  back  to  that 
night,  two  weeks  before,  when  Young  Denny  had 
stumbled  and  gone  floundering  to  his  knees  before 
her,  there  on  that  very  threshold.  The  boy's  own 
words  had  painted  that  picture  for  him  too  vividly 
for  him  to  forget.  And  he  knew,  without  reasoning 
it  out,  just  from  the  world  of  pain  there  in  her  eyes, 
that  she,  too,  at  that  moment  was  thinking  of  that 
limp  figure — of  the  great  red  gash  across  its  chin. 

"I  didn't  help  him,"  she  went  on,  and  now  her 
voice  was  little  more  than  a  whisper.  "I  went  and 
left  him  here  alone — and  hurt — when  I  should  have 
stayed,  that  night  when  he  went  away.  And  so  I 
bought  it — I  bought  it  because  I  thought  some  day 
he  might  come  back — and  need  me  even  more.  I 
thought  if  he  did  come — he'd  feel  as  though  he  had 
just — come  back  home!  And — and  just  to  be  here 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  265 

waiting,  I  thought,  too,  might  somehow  help  me  to 
have  faith  that  he  would  come,  some  day — safe!" 

The  old  man  felt  the  fiercely  tense  little  arms  go 
slack  then.  Her  head  went  forward  and  lay  heavy, 
pillowed  in  her  hands  upon  his  knees.  But  he  sat 
there  for  a  full  minute,  staring  down  at  the  thick, 
shimmering  mass  of  her  hair,  swallowing  an  unac 
countable  lump  that  bothered  his  breathing  prepara 
tory  to  telling  her  all  that  he  had  kept  waiting  for 
just  that  opportunity,  before  he  realized  that  she  was 
crying.  And  for  an  equally  long  period  he  cast  des 
perately  about  for  the  right  thing  to  say.  It  came 
to  him  finally — a  veritable  inspiration. 

"Why,  you  don't  want  to  cry,"  he  told  her  slowly. 
"They — they  ain't  nothing  to  worry  about  now !  Per 
if  that's  the  case — if  you've  gone  to  work  and  bought 
it,  why,  I  ain't  got  no  more  jurisdiction  over  it — none 
whatever!" 

Immediately  she  lifted  her  head  and  gazed  long 
and  questioningly  at  him,  but  Old  Jerry's  face  was 
only  guilelessly  grave.  It  was  more  than  that — ben 
evolent  reassurance  lit  up  every  feature,  and  little  by 
little  her  brimming  eyes  began  to  clear;  they  began 
to  glisten  with  that  baffling  delight  that  had  irritated 
him  so  before.  She  slipped  slowly  to  her  feet  and 
stood  and  gazed  down  at  him.  Old  Jerry  knew  then 
that  he  would  never  again  see  so  radiant  a  face  as  hers 
was  at  that  moment. 


266  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

"I  wasn't  crying  because  I  was  worried,"  she  said, 
and  she  managed  not  to  laugh.  "I've  been  doing 
that  every  night,  all  night  long,  for  two  weeks.  That 
was  before  I  understood — things!  But  today — this 
afternoon  I  found  something — read  something — that 
made  me  understand  better.  I — I'm  just  crying  a 
little  tonight  because  I  am  so  glad." 

Old  Jerry  couldn't  quite  fathom  the  whole  mean 
ing  of  those  last  words  of  hers.  They  surprised 
him  so  that  all  the  things  he  had  meant  to  tell  her 
right  then  of  Young  Denny's  departure  once  more 
went  totally  out  of  mind.  He  wondered  if  it  was 
the  red-headlined  account  of  his  first  battle  that 
she  had  seen.  No  matter  how  doubtful  it  was 
he  felt  it  was  very,  very  possible,  for  at  each 
day's  end  he  had  been  leaving  Denny's  roll  of 
papers  there  just  as  he  had  when  the  boy  was  at 
home. 

But  the  rest  of  it  he  understood  in  spite  of  the 
wonder  of  it  all.  Whenever  he  remembered  Young 
Denny  a-sprawl  upon  the  floor  it  seemed  to  him  a 
thing  too  marvelous  for  belief,  and  yet,  recalling  the 
light  that  had  glowed  radiant  in  that  girl's  eyes,  he 
knew  it  was  the  only  thing  left  to  believe. 

He  talked  it  over  with  himself  that  night  on  the 
way  home. 

"She  bought  it  so's  if  he  ever  did  want  to  come 
back,  he'd  feel  as  if  he  had  come  back  home,"  he 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  267 

repeated  her  words,  and  he  pondered  long  upon  them. 
There  was  only  one  possible  deduction. 

"She  thought  he  wouldn't  have  nothing  left  to  buy 
it  back  when  he  did  come — that  he'd  be  started  on 
the  road  all  the  rest  of  'em  traveled  and  pretty  well — 
shot — to — pieces!  That's  what  she  thought,"  he 
decided. 

He  shook  his  head  over  it. 

"And  she  didn't  know,"  he  marveled.  "She  didn't 
know  how  that  old  jug  really  got  broke — because  I 
ain't  told  her  yet !  But  she's  waitin'  for  him  just  the 
same — just  a-waitin'  for  him,  no  matter  how  he 
comes.  Figurin'  on  takin'  care  of  him,  too — that's 
what  she  was  doin' — her  that  ain't  no  bigger'n  his 
little  finger!" 

The  storm  had  blown  over  long  before  his  buggy 
went  rattling  down  that  long  hill,  and  he  sat  with  the 
reins  dangling  neglected  between  his  knees  and 
squinted  up  at  the  stars. 

"I  always  did  consider  I'd  been  pretty  lucky,"  he 
confided  after  a  time  to  the  plump  mare's  lazily  flop 
ping  ears,  "never  gettin'  mixed  up  in  any  matrimonial 
tangle,  so  to  speak.  But  now — now  I  ain't  quite  so 
sure."  A  lonesome  note  crept  into  the  querulous 
voice.  "Maybe  I'd  hev  kept  my  eyes  open  a  little 
mite  wider'n  I  did  if  I'd  ever  a-dreamed  anybody 
could  care  like  that.  .  .  .  Don't  happen  very 
often  though,  I  reckon.  Just  about  once  in  a  life- 


268  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

time,  maybe.     Maybe,  if  he  ain't  too  blind  to  see 
it  when  it  does  come     .     .     .     maybe  once  to  every 

man!" 

******** 

That  next  week  marked  the  beginning  of  an  in 
timacy  unlike  anything  which  Old  Jerry  had  ever 
before  known  in  all  his  life,  for  in  spite  of  the  girl's 
absolute  proprietorship  he  continued  his  daily  trips 
up  the  long  hill,  not  only  for  the  purpose  of  leaving 
Young  Denny's  bundle  of  papers  and  seed  catalogues, 
but  to  attend  to  the  stock  which  the  boy  had  left  in 
his  care  as  well.  It  never  occurred  to  him  that  that 
duty  was  only  optional  with  him  now. 

He  never  again  attempted  either,  after  that  night, 
to  explain  his  delinquency  and  deliver  Young  Denny's 
message  to  her.  There  seemed  to  him  absolutely  no 
need  now  to  open  a  subject  which  was  bound  to  be 
embarrassing  to  him.  And  then,  too,  a  sort  of  tacit 
understanding  appeared  to  have  sprung  up  between 
them  that  needed  no  further  explanation. 

Only  once  was  the  temptation  to  confess  to  her  the 
real  reason  for  Denny's  sudden  going  almost  stronger 
than  he  could  resist.  That  was  quite  a  month  later, 
when  the  news  of  the  boy's  second  battle  was  flaunted 
broadcast  by  the  same  red-headlined  sheet.  Then 
for  days  he  considered  the  advisabiltiy  of  such  a 
move. 

It  was  not  some  one  to  share  his  hot  pride  that  he 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  269 

wanted;  he  had  lived  his  whole  life  almost  entirely 
within  himself,  and  so  his  elation  was  no  less  keen 
because  he  had  no  second  person  with  whom  to  dis 
cuss  the  victory.  He  wanted  her  opinion  on  a  quite 
different  question — a  question  which  he  felt  utterly 
incapable  of  deciding  for  himself.  It  was  no  less  a 
plan  than  that  he  should  be  present  at  the  match 
which  was  already  hinted  at  between  "The  Pilgrim" 
and  Jed  The  Red — Jeddy  Conway,  from  that  very 
village. 

There  were  days  when  he  almost  felt  that  she 
knew  of  this  new  perplexity  of  his,  felt  that  she  really 
had  seen  that  account  of  Young  Denny's  first  fight  and 
had  been  watching  for  the  second,  and  at  such  times 
only  a  mumbled  excuse  and  a  hasty  retreat  saved  him 
from  baring  his  secret  desire. 

"She'd  think  I'd  gone  stark  crazy,"  he  excused  his 
lack  of  courage.  "She'd  say  I  was  a-goin'  into  my 
second  childhood!" 

Yet  in  the  end  it  was  the  girl  with  the  tip-tilted 
eyes  who  decided  it  for  him. 

Spring  had  slipped  into  early  summer  when  the 
day  came  which  made  the  gossip  of  "The  Pilgrim's" 
possible  bid  for  the  championship  a  certainty.  It  was 
harder  than  ever  for  Old  Jerry  after  that.  Each  fresh 
day's  issue  brought  forth  a  long  and  exhaustive  com 
parison  of  the  two  men's  chances — of  their  strength 
and  weaknesses.  The  technical  discussion  the  old 


270  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

man  skipped;  it  was  undecipherable  to  him  and 
enough  that  Young  Denny  was  hailed  as  a  certain 
winner. 

And  then  as  the  day  set  for  the  match  crept  nearer 
and  nearer,  he  began  to  notice  a  new  and  alarming 
change  in  the  tone  of  that  daily  column.  At  first 
it  was  only  fleeting — too  intangible  for  one  to  place 
one's  finger  upon  it.  But  by  the  end  of  another  week 
it  was  openly  inquiring  whether  "The  Pilgrim"  had 
as  much  as  an  even  chance  of  winning  after  all. 

It  bewildered  Old  Jerry;  it  was  beyond  his  com 
prehension,  and  had  he  not  been  so  depressed  him 
self  he  would  have  noted  the  change  that  came  over 
the  girl,  too,  these  days.  He  never  entered  the  big 
back  kitchen  now  to  hear  her  humming  softly  to 
herself,  and  sometimes  he  had  to  speak  several  times 
before  she  even  heard  him. 

That  continued  for  almost  a  week,  and  then  there 
came  a  day,  a  scant  three  days  before  the  date  which 
he  had  hungrily  underlined  in  red  upon  a  mental  cal 
endar,  which  brought  the  whole  vexing  indecision  to  a 
precipitate  head. 

Old  Jerry  read  that  day's  column  in  the  sporting 
extra  with  weazened  face  going  red  with  anger — 
read  it  with  fists  knotted.  Those  others  had  been 
merely  skeptical — doubtful  of  "The  Pilgrim's"  wil 
lingness  to  meet  the  champion — and  now  it  openly 
scoffed  at  him;  it  laughed  at  his  ability,  lashed  him 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  27 1 

with  ridicule.  And,  to  cap  it  all,  it  accused  him  openly 
of  having  already  "sold  out"  to  his  opponent. 

When  the  little  white-haired  driver  of  the  buggy 
reached  the  house  on  the  hill  that  night  he  was  as 
pale  as  he  had  been  red,  hours  before,  and  he  pleaded 
fatigue  to  excuse  his  too  hasty  departure.  He  did 
not  see  that  she  was  almost  as  openly  eager  to  have 
him  go  or  that  she  almost  ran  across  to  the  table  under 
the  light  with  the  packet  of  papers  as  he  turned 
away. 

Had  he  noticed  he  would  have  been  better  pre 
pared  the  next  night  for  the  scene  that  met  him  when 
he  opened  her  door  at  dusk.  One  step  was  all  he 
took,  and  then  he  stopped,  wide-eyed,  aghast.  Dryad 
was  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  her  hair 
loose  about  her  shoulders,  lips  drawn  dangerously 
back  from  tight  little  teeth,  fists  clenched  at  her  thoat, 
and  her  eyes  flaming. 

Old  Jerry  had  never  before  seen  her  in  a  rage;  he 
had  never  before  seen  anybody  so  terribly,  pallidly 
violent.  As  he  entered  her  eyes  shot  up  to  his.  He 
heard  her  breath  come  and  go,  come  and  go,  between 
dry  lips.  And  suddenly  she  lifted  her  feet  and 
stamped  upon  the  newspaper  strewn  about  her  on  the 
floor — infinitesimal  shreds  which  she  had  torn  and 
flung  from  her. 

"It's  a  lie !"  she  gasped.  "It's  a  lie— a  lie !  They 
said  he  couldn't  win  anyway;  they  said  he  had  sold — 


272  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

sold  his  chance  to  win — and  they  lie !  He's  never 
been  whipped.  He's  never — been — whipped — yet!" 

It  frightened  him.  The  very  straining  of  her 
throat  and  the  mad  rise  and  fall  of  her  breast  made 
him  afraid  for  her.  In  his  effort  to  quiet  her  he 
hardly  reckoned  what  he  was  saying. 

"Why,  it — it  don't  mean  nothin',''  he  stated  mildly. 
"That  newspaper  trash  ain't  no  account,  anyway  you 
look  at  it." 

"Then  why  do  they  print  it?"  she  stormed.  "How 
do  they  dare  to  print  it?  They've  been  doing  it  for 
days — weeks !" 

He  felt  more  equal  to  that  question.  The  answer 
fairly  popped  into  his  brain. 

"They  hev  to,  I  reckon,"  he  said  with  a  fine  sem 
blance  of  cheerfulness.  "If  they  didn't  maybe  every- 
bbdy'd  be  so  sure  he'd  win  that  they  wouldn't  even 
bother  to  go  to  see  it."  And  then,  very  carelessly,  as 
though  it  was  of  little  importance :  "Don't  know's 
I  would  hev  thought  of  goin'  myself  if  it  hadn't  been 
for  that.  It's  advertisin'  I  reckon — just  advertisin' !" 

Her  fists  came  down  from  her  chin;  her  whole  body 
relaxed.  It  was  that  bewildering  change  of  mood 
which  he  could  never  hope  to  follow.  She  even  started 
toward  him. 

"Wouldn't  have  thought  of  it  I"  she  repeated. 
"Why — why,  you  don't  mean  that  you  aren't  going?" 

It  was  quite  as  though  she  had  never  considered 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  273 

the  possibility  of  such  a  contingency.  Old  Jerry's 
mouth  dropped  open  while  he  stared  at  her. 

"Go,"  he  stammered,  "me  go!  Why,  it's  goin'  to 
happen  tomorrow  night  1" 

She  nodded  her  head  in  apparent  unconsciousness 
of  his  astonishment. 

"You'll  have  to  leave  on  the  early  train,"  she 
agreed,  "and — and  so  I  won't  see  you  again." 

She  turned  her  back  upon  him  for  a  moment.  He 
realized  that  she  was  fumbling  inside  the  throat  of 
the  little,  too-tight  blouse.  When  she  faced  him  again 
there  was  something  in  the  palm  of  her  outstretched 
hand. 

"I've  been  waiting  for  you  to  come  tonight,"  she 
went  on,  "and  it  was  Hard  waiting.  That's  why  I 
tore  the  paper  up,  I  think.  And  now,  will  you — will 
you  give  him  this  for  me — give  it  to  him  when  he  has 
won?  You  won't  have  to  say  anything."  She  hesi 
tated.  "I — I  think  he'll  understand  1" 

Old  Jerry  reached  out  and  took  it  from  her — a 
bit  of  a  red  silk  bow,  dotted  with  silver  spangles.  He 
gazed  at  it  a  moment  before  he  tucked  it  away  in 
an  inside  pocket,  and  in  that  moment  of  respite  his 
brain  raced  madly. 

"Of  course  I  figured  on  goin',"  he  said,  when 
his  breath  returned,  "but  I  been  a  little  undecided — > 
jest  a  trifle!  But  I  ought  to  be  there;  he  might  be 
a  mite  anxious  if  they  wasn't  somebody  from  home. 


274  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

And  I'll  give  it  to  him  then — I'll  give  it  to  him  when 
he's  won!" 

He  went  a  bit  unsteadily  back  to  his  waiting  buggy. 

"She  had  that  all  ready  to  give  me,"  he  said  to 
himself  as  he  climbed  up  to  the  high  seat  Tentative 
ly  his  fingers  touched  the  little  lump  that  the  spangly 
bow  of  red  made  inside  his  coat.  "She's  had  it  all 
ready  for  me — mebby  for  days!  But  how'd  she 
know  I  was  a-goin'?"  he  asked  himself.  "How'd 
she  know,  when  I  didn't  know  myself?" 

He  gave  it  up  as  a  feminine  whimsicality  too  deep 
for  mere  male  wisdom.  Once  on  the  way  back  he 
thought  of  the  route  that  would  go  mailless  the  next 
day. 

"  'Twon't  hurt  'em  none  to  wait  a  day  or  so,"  he 
stated,  and  his  voice  was  just  a  little  tinged  with 
importance.  "Maybe  it'll  do  'em  good.  And  there 
ain't  no  way  out  of  it,  anyhow — for  I  surely  got  to 
be  there!" 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

MOREHOUSE  did  not  hear  the  door  in  the 
opaque  glass  partition  that  walled  his  desk 
off  from  the  outer  editorial  offices  open  and 
close,  for  all  that  it  was  very  quiet.  Ever  since  the 
hour  which  followed  the  going  to  press  of  the  after 
noon  edition  of  the  paper  the  huge  room,  with  its 
littered  floor  and  flat-topped  tables,  had  been  deserted, 
so  still  that  the  buzzing  of  a  blue-bottle  fly  against 
the  window  pane  at  Morehouse's  side  seemed  irrita- 
tingly  loud  by  contrast. 

The  plump  newspaperman  in  brown  was  too  deeply 
preoccupied  to  hear  anything  so  timidly  unobtrusive 
as  was  that  interruption,  and  only  after  the  intruder 
had  plucked  nervously  at  the  elbow  that  supported 
his  chin  did  he  realize  that  he  was  not  alone.  His 
head  came  up  then,  slowly,  until  he  was  gazing  back 
into  the  eyes  of  the  little,  attenuated  old  man  who, 
head  tilted  birdlike  to  one  side,  was  standing  beside 
him  in  uncomfortable,  apologetic  silence. 

It  surprised  Morehouse  more  than  a  little.  For 
the  life  of  him  he  couldn't  have  told  just  whom  he 
had  expected  to  see  when  he  looked  up,  but  nothing 
could  have  startled  him  more  than  the  presence  of 


276  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

that  white-haired  wisp  of  a  man  with  the  beady  eyes 
who  fitted  almost  uncannily  into  the  perplexing  puzzle 
which  had  held  him  there  at  his  desk  until  dusk.  He 
forgot  to  greet  the  newcomer.  Instead  he  sat  gazing 
at  him,  wide-mouthed,  and  after  Old  Jerry  had  borne 
the  scrutiny  as  long  as  he  could  he  took  the  initiative 
himself. 

"Well,  I  got  here,"  he  quavered.  "I  been  a-tryin' 
to  get  upstairs  to  see  you  ever  since  about  three 
o'clock,  and  they  wouldn't  let  me  in.  Said  you  was 
too  busy  to  be  bothered,  even  when  I  told  'em  I  be 
longed  to  the  Gov'mint  service.  But  I  managed  to 
slip  by  'em  at  last!" 

He  paused  and  waited  for  some  word  of  com 
mendation.  Morehouse  merely  nodded.  He  was 
thinking — thinking  hard  I  The  voice  was  almost  as 
familiar  to  him  as  was  his  own,  and  yet  it  persisted 
in  tantalizing  his  memory.  He  couldn't  quite  place 
it.  Old  Jerry  sensed  something  of  his  difficulty. 

"I'm  from  Boltonwood,"  he  introduced  himself, 
not  quite  so  uncertainly.  "I'm  Old  Jerry.  Maybe 
you  remember  me — I  sat  just  next  the  stove  that 
night  you  was  in  town  a-huntin'  news." 

Then  Morehouse  remembered.  Old  Jerry  had  not 
had  much  to  say  that  night,  but  his  face  and  his  shrill 
eagerness  to  snatch  a  little  of  the  spotlight  was  un 
forgettable.  And  it  was  of  that  very  night  More- 
house  had  been  thinking — that  and  the  face  of  the 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  277 

big  boy  silent  there  on  the  threshold — when  the  inter 
ruption  came.  But  still  he  uttered  no  welcome;  in 
stead  there  was  something  close  akin  to  distinct  aver 
sion  in  his  manner  as  he  drew  up  a  chair  for  the  old 
man. 

Old  Jerry  felt  the  chill  lack  of  cordiality,  but  he 
sat  down.  And  after  a  long  period  of  silence,  in  which 
Morehouse  made  no  move  to  put  him  more  at  ease, 
he  swallowed  hard  and  went  on  with  his  explanation. 

"I  come  down  to — to  see  Denny  fight,"  he  stated. 
"It  kinda  seemed  to  us — to  me — that  he'd  think  it 
strange  if  somebody  from  his  home  town  wa'n't  there. 
So  I  come  along.  And  I  wouldn't  a  bothered  you  at 
all  today — it's  gettin'  late  and  I  ain't  got  my  ticket 
to  get  in  yet — only — only  I  was  worried  a  mite — jest 
a  trifle — and  I  thought  I'd  better  see  you  if  I  could." 

Morehouse  tilted  his  head  again. 

Old  Jerry  gave  up  any  attempt  of  further  excusing 
his  intrusion  and  went  straight  to  the  heart  of  the 
matter.  He  unfolded  a  paper  that  bulged  from  the 
side  pocket  of  his  coat  and  spread  it  out  on  the  desk. 

"It's  this,"  he  said,  indicating  the  column  that  had 
scoffed  so  openly  at  Young  Denny's  chances.  "You — 
you  wrote  it,  I  suppose,  didn't  you?" 

Again  that  impersonal  nod. 

"Well,  I  just  wanted  to  ask  you  if — if  you  really 
though  it  was — if  you  think  he  ain't  got  no  chance 
at  all?" 


278  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

The  eagerness  of  that  trembling  old  voice  was 
not  to  be  ignored  any  longer.  But  Morehouse  couldn't 
help  but  recollect  the  eager  circle  of  "Ayes"  which 
had  flanked  the  Judge  that  other  night. 

"What  of  it?"  he  inquired  coolly.  "What  if  he 
hasn't?  I  though  Jed  Conway  was  the  particular 
pride  of  your  locality !" 

Old  Jerry's  beady  eyes  widened.  There  was  no 
mistaking  the  positive  dislike  in  that  round  face, 
any  more  than  one  could  misunderstand  the  antago 
nism  of  that  round-faced  man's  words. 

For  weeks  Morehouse  had  been  puzzling  over  a 
question  which  he  could  not  answer — something 
which,  for  all  the  intimacy  that  had  sprung  up  between 
himself  and  Denny  Bolton,  he  had  never  felt  able  to 
ask  of  the  boy  with  the  grave  eyes  and  graver  lips. 
Even  since  the  conference  in  Hogarty's  little  office, 
when  he  had  agreed  to  the  ex-lightweight's  plan,  it 
had  been  vexing  him,  no  nearer  solution  than  it  had 
been  that  day  when  he  assured  Hogarty  that  there  was 
more  behind  young  Denny's  eagerness  to  meet  Jed 
Conway  than  the  prize-money  could  account  for. 

Now,  that  afternoon,  on  the  very  eve  of  that  battle, 
he  sat  there  in  the  thickening  dusk,  unconscious  of 
the  passage  of  time,  and  listened  to  the  explanation 
that  came  pouring  from  Old  Jerry's  lips,  haltingly  at 
first,  and  then  in  a  steady  falsetto  stream,  and  learned 
the  answer  to  it. 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  279 

The  old  mail  carrier  didn't  know  what  he  was 
doing.  His  one  desire  was  to  vindicate  himself  in 
the  cold  eyes  of  the  man  before  him.  But  he  told  it 
well  and  he  did  not  spare  himself. 

Once  he  though  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  thawing 
mirth  in  that  face  when  he  had  finished  relating  how 
Denny  had  led  him,  reluctant  and  fearful,  from  the 
kitchen  of  the  farmhouse  to  the  spot  of  blood  on  the 
stable  wall,  and  from  there  to  the  jug  in  a  heap  of 
fragments  against  the  tree-butt.  And  that  fleeting 
mirth  became  a  warm,  all-enveloping  grin  when  he 
had  detailed  the  climax  of  the  Judge's  prearranged 
sensation  that  same  night. 

He  knew  then  that  he  had  set  himself  right,  and 
he  did  not  mean  to  go  into  it  any  more  fully.  It 
was  the  changed  attitude  of  Morehouse  that  led  him 
on  and  on.  So  he  told,  too,  of  Dryad  Anderson's 
purchase  of  the  bleak  old  place  on  the  hill  and  her 
reason.  But  when  it  came  to  her  wild  fury  against 
the  paper  that  had  dared  to  scoff  at  the  boy  he  paused. 
For  a  second  he  calculated  the  wisdom  of  exhibiting 
the  bit  of  a  red  bow  that  had  been  entrusted  him.  It, 
without  a  doubt,  would  be  the  only  passport  he  could 
hope  for  to  a  share  of  the  glory,  when  it  was  all 
over.  For  the  time  being  he  jealously  decided  to  let 
it  wait,  and  he  turned  back  to  the  rumpled  sheet 
upon  the  desk. 

"She — she'd  be  mighty  disappointed,"  he  finished 


v8o  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

a  little  lamely.  "She's  so  sure,  somehow,  it  kinda 
worries  me.  You — you  do  think  he's  got  a  little 
chance,  don't  you — jest  a  trifle?" 

It  took  a  long  time — Old  Jerry's  confession.  It 
was  dark  before  he  finished,  but  Morehouse  did  not 
interrupt  him  by  so  much  as  the  lifting  of  a  finger. 
And  he  sat  silent,  gazing  straight  ahead  of  him, 
after  the  old  man  had  finished.  Old  Jerry,  watching 
him,  wondered  vaguely  what  made  his  eyes  so  bright 
now. 

"So  that's  it,  is  it?"  the  plump  man  murmured  at 
last.  "So  that's  it.  And  I  never  dreamed  of  it  once. 
I  must  be  going  stale." 

He  wheeled  in  his  chair  until  he  faced  Old  Jerry 
full. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said.  "A  half-hour  before  you 
came  in  I  didn't  like  even  to  think  of  it.  But  now — 
chance?  Well,  this  deadly  waiting  is  over  anyhow, 
and  we'll  soon  know.  And  I  wonder — now — I  won 
der!" 

With  his  watch  flat  in  the  palm  of  his  hand  More- 
house  sat  and  whistled  softly.  And  then  he  shot  has 
tily  to  his  feet.  Old  Jerry  understood  that  whistle, 
but  he  hung  back. 

"I — I  ain't  got  my  ticket  yet,"  he  protested. 

Morehouse  merely  reached  in  and  hustled  him  over 
the  threshold. 

"Your  unabridged  edition,  while  it  has  no  doubt 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  281 

saved  my  sanity,  has  robbed  us  both  of  food  and 
drink,"  he  stated.  "There's  no  time  left,  even  for 
friendly  argument,  if  you  want  to  be  there  when  it 
happens.  You  won't  need  any  ticket  this  time — 
you'll  be  with  me." 

Even  at  that  they  were  late,  for  when  they  paused 
a  moment  in  the  entrance  of  the  huge,  bowl-shaped 
amphitheater,  a  sharp  gust  of  hand-clapping,  broken 
by  shrill  whistling  and  shriller  cat-calls,  met  them. 
Far  out  across  that  room  Old  Jerry  saw  two  figures, 
glistening  damp  under  the  lights,  crawl  through  the 
ropes  that  penned  in  a  high-raised  platform  in  the 
very  center  of  the  building,  and  disappear  up  an 
aisle. 

He  turned  a  dismayed  face  to  Morehouse  who,  with 
one  hand  clutching  his  arm,  was  deeply  engrossed  in 
a  whispered  conversation  with  a  man  at  the  en 
trance — too  engrossed  to  see.  But  when  the  news 
paperman  turned  at  last  to  lead  the  way  down  into 
the  body  of  the  house  he  explained  in  one  brief  word: 

"Preliminary,"  he  said. 

Old  Jerry  did  not  understand.  But  half  dragged, 
half  led,  he  followed  blindly  after  his  guide,  until  he 
found  himself  wedged  into  a  seat  at  the  very  edge  of 
that  roped-off,  canvas-padded  area.  It  was  a  single 
long  bench  with  a  narrow  board  desk,  set  elbow  high, 
running  the  entire  length  in  front  of  it.  Peering  half 
fearfully  from  the  corner  of  his  eye  Old  Jerry  real- 


282  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

ized  that  there  were  at  least  a  full  dozen  men  beside 
themselves  wedged  in  before  it,  and  that,  like  More- 
house,  there  was  a  block  of  paper  before  each  man. 

The  awe  with  which  the  immensity  of  the  place  had 
stunned  him  began  to  lessen  a  little  and  allowed  him 
to  look  around.  Wherever  he  turned  a  sea  of  faces 
met  him — faces  strangely  set  and  strained.  Even 
under  the  joviality  of  those  closest  to  him  he  saw  the 
tightened  sinews  of  their  jaws.  Those  further  away 
were  blurred  by  the  smoke  that  rose  in  a  never-thin 
ning  cloud,  blurred  until  there  was  nothing  but  in 
distinct  blotches  of  white  in  the  outer  circles  of  seats. 

And  when  he  lifted  his' head  and  looked  above  him, 
he  gasped.  They  were  there,  too,  tiny,  featureless 
dots  of  white,  like  nothing  so  much  as  holes  in  a  black 
wall,  in  the  smoke-drift  that  alternately  hid  and  re 
vealed  them. 

Faces  of  men — faces  of  men,  wherever  he  turned 
his  head!  Faces  strained  and  tense  as  they  waited. 
That  terrible  tensity  got  under  his  skin  after  a  while; 
it  crept  in  upon  him  until  his  spine  crawled  a  little, 
as  if  from  cold.  It  was  quiet,  too;  oddly  quiet  in 
spite  of  the  dull  mumble  that  rose  from  thousands  of 
throats. 

Twice  that  hush  was  broken — twice  when  men 
laden  with  pails  of  water,  and  bottles  and  sponges,  and 
thick  white  towels  crowded  through  the  ropes  in 
front  of  him.  Then  the  whole  house  was  swept  by 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  283 

a  premature  storm  of  hand-clapping  for  the  men  who, 
stripped  save  for  the  flat  shoes  upon  their  feet  and 
the  trunks  about  their  hips,  followed  them  into  the 
ring. 

"Preliminary!"  Morehouse  had  said,  and  there  had 
been  something  of  disinterested  contempt  in  his  voice. 
Old  Jerry  felt,  too,  the  entire  great  crowd's  disin 
terested,  good-natured  tolerance.  They  were  waiting 
for  something  else. 

Twice  Morehouse  left  his  place  at  the  long  board 
desk  and  wended  his  way  off  through  the  maze  of 
aisles.  The  second  time  he  returned,  after  the  third 
match  had  been  finished,  Old  Jerry  caught  sight  of 
his  face  while  he  was  a  long  way  off — and  Old  Jerry's 
breath  caught  in  his  throat.  His  plump  cheeks  were 
pale  when  he  crowded  back  into  his  place.  The  old 
man  leaned  nearer  and  tried  to  ask  a  question  and  his 
dry  tongue  refused.  The  plump  reporter  nodded  his 
head. 

Again  the  men  came  with  their  bottles  of  water — 
their  pails — their  towels  and  sponges.  There  was 
a  third  man  who  slipped  agilely  into  the  nearest 
corner.  Old  Jerry  saw  him  turn  once  and  nod  re 
assuringly,  he  thought,  at  Morehouse.  The  little  mail 
carrier  did  not  know  him;  everybody  else  within  a 
radius  of  yards  had  apparently  recognized  him,  but 
he  could  not  take  his  eyes  off  that  lean,  hard  face. 
There  was  a  kind  of  satanic,  methodical  deadliness 


284  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN1 

in  Hogarty's  directions  to  the  other  two  men  inside 
the  ropes. 

Even  while  he  was  staring  at  him,  fascinated,  that 
hand-clapping  stormed  up  again,  and  then  swelled 
to  a  hoarse  roar  that  went  hammering  to  the  roof. 
A  figure  passed  Old  Jerry,  so  close  that  the  long  robe 
which  wrapped  him  brushed  his  knee.  When  Ho- 
garty  had  stripped  the  robe  away  and  the  figure  went 
on — on  up  through  the  ropes — he  recognized  him. 

As  Young  Denny  seated  himself  in  the  corner  just 
above  them  Morehouse  threw  out  his  arm  and  forced 
Old  Jerry  back  into  his  seat.  Then  the  little  man 
remembered  and  shrank  back,  but  his  eyes  glowed. 
He  forgot  to  watch  for  the  coming  of  the  other 
in  dumb  amaze  at  the  wide  expanse  of  the  boy's 
shoulders  that  rose  white  as  the  narrow  cloth  that 
encircled  his  hips.  Dazed,  he  listened  to  them  shout 
ing  the  name  by  which  they  knew  him — "The  Pil 
grim" — and  he  did  not  turn  away  until  Jed  Conway 
was  in  the  ring. 

He  heard  first  the  cheers  that  greeted  the  new 
comer — broken  reiterations  of  "Oh,  you  Red!"  But 
the  same  heartiness  was  not  there,  nor  the  volume. 
When  Old  Jerry's  eyes  crept  furtively  across  the  ring 
he  understood  the  reason. 

It  was  the  same  face  that  he  had  known  before, 
older  and  heavier,  but  the  same.  And  there  was  no 
appeal  in  that  face.  It  was  scant  of  brow,  brutish, 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  285 

supercunning,  and  the  swarthy  body  that  rose  above 
the  black  hip-cloth  matched  the  face.  Old  Jerry's 
eyes  clung  to  the  thick  neck  that  ran  from  his  ears 
straight  down  into  his  shoulders  until  a  nameless  dread 
took  him  by  the  throat  and  made  him  turn  away. 

Back  in  Denny's  corner  Hogarty  was  lacing  on  the 
gloves,  talking  softly  in  the  meantime  to  the  big  boy 
before  him. 

"From  the  tap  of  the  gong,"  he  was  droning. 
"From  the  tap  of  the  gong — from  the  tap  of  the 
gong." 

Young  Denny  nodded,  smiled  faintly  as  he  rose  to 
his  feet  to  meet  the  announcer,  who  crossed  and  placed 
one  hand  on  his  shoulder  and  introduced  him.  Again 
the  applause  went  throbbing  to  the  roof;  and  again 
the  echo  of  it  after  Jed  The  Red  had  in  turn  stood 
up  in  his  corner. 

The  referee  called  them  to  the  middle  of  the  ring. 
It  was  quiet  in  an  instant — so  quiet  that  Old  Jerry's 
throat  ached  with  it.  The  announcer  lifted  his  hand. 

"Jed  The  Red  fights  at  one  hundred  and  ninety- 
six,"  he  said,  "  'The  Pilgrim'  at  one  hundred  and 
seventy-two." 

Immediately  he  turned  and  dropped  through  the 
ropes.  His  going  was  accompanied  by  a  flurry  in 
each  corner  as  the  seconds  scuttled  after  him  with 
stools  and  buckets. 

They  faced  each  other,  alone  in  the  ring  save  for 


286  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

the  referee — The  Pilgim  and  Jed  The  Red.  Then 
a  gong  struck.  They  reached  out  and  each  touched 
the  glove  of  the  other. 

Old  Jerry  could  not  follow  it — it  came  too  terribly 
swift  for  that — but  he  heard  the  thudding  impact  of 
gloves  as  Denny  hurtled  forward  in  that  first  savage 
rush. 

"From  the  gong,"  Hogarty  had  ordered,  "from 
the  gong!"  The  Red,  covering  and  ducking,  blocking 
and  swaying  beneath  the  whirlwind  of  that  attack, 
broke  and  staggered  and  set  himself,  only  to  break 
again,  and  retreat,  foot  by  foot,  around  the  ring. 
The  whole  house  had  come  to  its  feet  with  the  first 
rush,  screaming  to  a  man.  Old  Jerry,  too,  was 
standing  up,  giddy,  dizzy,  as  he  watched  Conway 
weather  that  first  minute. 

He  had  no  chance  to  swing;  with  both  hands  cover 
ing  he  fought  wildly  to  stay  on  his  feet;  to  live  through 
it;  to  block  that  right  hand  that  lashed  out  again  and 
again  and  found  his  face. 

Each  time  that  blow  went  across  it  shook  him  to 
the  soles  of  his  feet;  it  lifted  the  cheering  of  the 
crowd  to  a  higher,  madder  key;  but  even  Old  Jerry, 
eyes  a  little  quicker  already,  saw  that  none  of  those 
blows  landed  flush  upon  the  side  of  the  jaw. 

Conway  called  to  his  aid  all  the  ring-generalship 
of  which  he  was  capable  in  that  opening  round.  Once 
that  lightening-like  fist  reached  out  and  found  his 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  287 

mouth.  A  trickle  of  blood  oozed  red  from  the  lips 
that  puffed  up,  almost  before  the  glove  came  away; 
once  when  he  had  seen  an  opening  and  led  for  The 
Pilgrim's  own  face,  that  wicked  jolt  caught  him  wide 
open.  He  ducked  his  head  between  his  shoulders 
then.  The  shock  sent  him  to  his  knees,  but  that  up 
raised  shoulder  saved  him.  The  force  of  that  glanc 
ing  smash  had  spent  itself  before  it  reached  his  unpro 
tected  neck. 

There  was  no  let-up — no  lull  in  the  relentless  ad 
vance.  He  was  on  his  feet  again,  grim,  grasping, 
reeling,  hanging  on!  And  again  that  avalanche  of 
destruction  enveloped  him. 

He  fought  to  drop  into  a  clinch,  for  one  breath's 
respite,  his  huge  hairy  arms  slipping  hungrily  out 
about  Denny's  white  body,  but  even  as  he  snuggled 
his  body  close  in,  that  fist  lashed  up  between  them 
and  found  his  chin  again.  It  straightened  him,  flung 
him  back.  And  once  more,  before  the  certain  annihi 
lation  of  that  blow,  he  ducked  his  head  in  between 
his  shoulders. 

Old  Jerry  heard  the  crash  of  the  glove  against 
the  top  of  his  head;  he  saw  Conway  hurled  back 
into  the  ropes.  But  not  until  seconds  later,  when 
he  realized  that  the  roar  of  the  crowd  had  hushed, 
did  he  see  that  a  change  had  come  over  the  fight. 

Conway  was  no  longer  giving  ground;  he  was 
himself  driving  in  more  and  more  viciously,  for  that 


288  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

deadly  right  hand  no  longer  leaped  out  to  check  him. 
Twice  just  as  Denny  had  rocked  him  he  now  jolted 
his  own  right  over  to  The  Pilgrim's  face.  At  each 
blow  the  boy  lashed  out  with  his  left  hand.  Both 
blows  he  missed,  and  the  second  time  the  force  of  his 
swing  whirled  him  against  the  barrier.  Right  and 
left  Conway  sent  his  gloves  crashing  into  his  unpro 
tected  stomach — right  and  left ! 

And  then  the  tap  of  the  gong! 

Hogarty  was  through  the  ropes  with  the  bell.  As 
Denny  dropped  upon  the  stool  he  stripped  the  glove 
from  the  boy's  right  hand  and  examined  it  with  anx 
ious  fingers.  The  other  two  were  sponging  his  chest 
with  water — pumping  fresh  air  into  his  lungs;  but  Old 
Jerry's  eyes  clung  to  the  calamity  written  upon  Ho- 
garty's  gray  features. 

Everybody  else  seemed  to  understand  what  had 
happened — everybody  but  himself.  He  turned  again 
to  the  man  next  him  on  the  bench.  Morehouse,  too, 
had  been  watching  the  ex-lightweight's  deft  fingers. 

"Broken,"  he  groaned.  "His  right  hand  is  gone." 
And  after  what  seemed  hours  Old  Jerry  realized  that 
Morehouse  was  cursing  hoarsely. 

In  Conway's  corner  the  activity  was  doubly  fever 
ish.  The  Red  lay  sprawled  back  against  the  ropes 
while  they  kneeded  knotty  legs  and  shoulders.  There 
was  blood  on  his  chin,  his  lips  were  cut  and  mis 
shapen,  but  he  had  weathered  that  round  without 


289 

serious  damage.  Watching  him  Old  Jerry  saw  that 
he  was  smiling — snarling  confidently. 

Back  in  Denny's  corner  they  were  still  working 
over  him,  but  the  whole  house  had  sensed  the  dis 
may  in  that  little  knot  of  men.  Hogarty,  gnawing 
his  lip,  stopped  and  whispered  once  to  the  boy  on  the 
stool,  but  Young  Denny  shook  his  head  and  held  out 
his  hand.  He  laced  the  gloves  back  on  them,  over 
the  purple,  puffy  knuckles. 

And  then  again  that  cataclysmic  bell. 

Just  as  the  first  round  had  started,  that  second  one 
opened  with  a  rush,  but  this  time  it  was  Conway  who 
forced  the  fighting.  Like  some  gigantic  projectile 
he  drove  in  and  caught  Denny  in  his  own  corner,  and 
beat  him  back  against  the  standard.  Again  that  thud 
ding  right  and  left,  right  and  left,  into  the  stomach. 
And  again  Old  Jerry  saw  that  left  hand  flash  out — 
and  miss. 

Just  as  The  Pilgrim  had  driven  him  Conway 
forced  Denny  around  the  ring,  except  that  the  boy 
was  heart-breaking  slow  in  getting  away.  The  Red 
stayed  with  him,  beat  him  back  and  back,  smothered 
him  1  With  that  deadly  right  no  longer  hunting  for 
his  jaw,  he  fought  with  nothing  to  fear,  for  Young 
Denny  could  not  find  his  face  even  once  with  that 
flashing  left  swing. 

Before  the  round  was  half  over  The  Pilgrim  had 
gone  down  twice — body  blows  that  did  little  harm; 


290  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

but  they  were  shouting  for  The  Red — shouting  as  if 
from  a  great  distance,  from  the  balconies. 

Again  Conway  drove  him  into  a  corner  of  the 
ropes,  feinted  for  the  stomach.  Then  there  came 
that  first  blow  that  found  his  chin.  Old  Jerry  saw 
Denny's  body  go  limp  as  he  crashed  his  length  upon 
the  padded  canvas;  he  saw  him  try  to  rise  and  heard 
the  house  screaming  for  him  to  take  the  count. 

He  rested  there  for  a  precious  instant,  swaying 
on  one  knee.  But  his  eyes  were  still  glazed  when  he 
rose,  and  again  Conway,  rushing,  beat  down  that 
guarding  right,  and,  swinging  with  all  his  shoulder 
weight  behind  it,  found  that  same  spot  and  dropped 
him  again. 

Pandemonium  broke  loose  in  the  upper  reaches 
of  the  seats,  but  the  silence  of  the  body  of  the  house 
was  deathlike  as  he  lay  without  stirring.  Old  Jerry 
gulped  and  waited — choked  back  a  sobbing  breath 
as  he  saw  him  start  to  lift  himself  once  more.  Upon 
his  hands  and  knees  first,  then  upon  his  knees  alone. 
And  then,  with  eyes  shut,  he  struggled  up,  at  the  count 
of  ten,  and  shaped  up  again. 

And  Conway  beat  him  down. 

Even  the  gallery  was  quiet  now.  The  thud  of  that 
stiff-armed  jolt  went  to  every  corner  of  that  vast  room. 
And  the  referee  was  droning  out  the  count  again. 

" — Five — six — seven " 

Head  sagging  between  his  arms,  eyes  staring  and 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  29 1 

sightless,  The  Pilgrim  groped  out  and  found  the 
ropes.  Once  more  at  the  end  of  the  toll  he  lifted 
himself — lifted  himself  by  the  strength  of  his  shoul 
ders  to  his  legs  that  tottered  beneath  him,  and  then 
stepped  free  of  the  ropes. 

That  time,  before  Conway  could  swing,  the  gong 
saved  him. 

Again  it  was  Hogarty  who  was  first  through  the 
ropes.  Effortlessly  he  stooped  and  lifted  that  limp 
body  and  carried  it  across  to  the  stool.  They  tried  to 
stretch  him  back  against  the  ropes  behind  him,  and 
each  time  his  head  slumped  forward  over  his  knees. 

Old  Jerry  turned  toward  Morehouse  and  choked — 
licked  his  lips  and  choked  again.  And  Morehouse 
nodded  his  head  dumbly. 

"He — he's  gone!"  he  said. 

Old  Jerry  sat  and  stared  back  at  him  as  though  he 
couldn't  understand.  He  remembered  the  bit  of  a  red 
bow  in  his  pocket  then;  he  fumbled  inside  and  found 
it.  He  remembered  the  eyes  of  the  girl  who  had  given 
it  to  him,  too,  that  night  when  she  had  knelt  at  his 
knees.  His  old  fingers  closed,  viselike,  upon  the  fat 
man's  arm. 

"But  she  told  me  to  give  him  this,"  he  mumbled 
dully.  "Why,  she — she  said  for  me  to  give  him  this, 
when  he  had  Won." 

Morehouse  stared  at  the  bit  of  tinseled  silk — 
stared  up  at  Old  Jerry's  face  and  back  again.  And 


292  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

then  he  leaned  over  suddenly  and  picked  it  up.  The 
next  moment  he  was  crowding  out  from  behind  the 
desk — was  climbing  into  the  ring. 

Old  Jerry  saw  him  fling  fiercely  tense  words  into 
Hogarty's  face,  and  Hogarty  stood  back.  He  knelt 
before  the  slack  body  on  the  stool  and  tried  to  raise 
the  head;  he  held  the  bit  of  bright  web  before  him, 
but  there  was  no  recognition  in  Denny's  eyes.  And 
the  old  man  heard  the  plump  reporter's  words,  sob- 
like  with  excitement : 

"She  sent  it,"  he  hammered  at  those  deaf  ears. 
"She  sent  it — she  sent  it — silk — a  little  bow  of  red 
silk!" 

Then  the  whole  vast  house  saw  the  change  that 
came  over  that  limp  form.  They  saw  the  slack  shoul 
ders  begin  to  go  back;  saw  the  dead-white  face  come 
up ;  they  saw  those  sick  eyes  beginning  to  clear.  And 
The  Pilgrim  smiled  a  little — smiled  into  Morehouse's 
face. 

"Silk,"  he  repeated  softly.  "Silk!"  and  then,  as 
if  it  had  all  come  back  at  once:  "Silk — next  to  her 
skin!" 

And  they  called  it  a  miracle — that  recovery.  They 
called  it  a  miracle  of  the  mind  over  a  body  already 
beaten  beyond  endurance.  For  in  the  scant  thirty 
seconds  which  were  left,  while  the  boy  lay  back 
with  them  working  desperately  above  him,  it  was  al 
most  possible  to  see  the  strength  ebbing  back  into  his 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  293 

veins.  They  dashed  water  upon  his  head,  inverted 
bottles  of  it  into  his  face,  and  emptied  it  from  his 
eyes,  but  during  that  long  half  minute  the  vague  smile 
never  left  his  lips — nor  his  eyes  the  face  of  Conway 
across  from  him. 

And  he  went  to  meet  The  Red  when  the  gong  called 
to  them  again.  He  went  to  meet  him — smiling! 

The  bell  seemed  to  pick  him  up  and  drop  him  in  the 
middle  of  the  ring.  Set  for  the  shock  he  stopped 
Conway's  hurtling  attack.  And  when  The  Red  swung 
he  tightened,  took  the  blow  flush  on  the  side  of  the 
face,  and  only  rocked  a  little. 

Conway's  chin  seemed  to  lift  to  receive  the  blow 
which  he  started  then  from  the  waist.  That  right 
hand,  flashing  up,  found  it  and  straightened  The  Red 
back — lifted  him  to  his  toes.  And  while  he  was  still 
in  the  air  The  Pilgrim  measured  and  swung.  The 
left  glove  caught  him  flush  below  the  ear;  it  picked 
him  up  and  drove  him  crashing  back  into  the  corner 
from  which  he  had  just  come. 

Old  Jerry  saw  them  bend  over  him — saw  them 
pick  him  up  at  last  and  slip  him  through  the  ropes. 
Then  he  realized  that  the  referee  was  holding  Young 
Denny's  right  hand  aloft;  that  Hogarty,  with  arms 
about  him,  was  holding  the  boy  erect. 

The  little  mail-carrier  heard  the  ex-lightweight's 
words,  as  he  edged  in  beside  Morehouse,  against  the 
ropes. 


294  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

"A  world-beater,"  he  was  screaming  above  the  tu 
mult.  "I'll  make  a  world-beater  of  you  in  a  year!" 

And  The  Pilgrim,  still  smiling  vaguely,  shook  his 
head  a  little. 

"Maybe,"  he  answered  faintly.  "Maybe  I'll  come 
back.  I  don't  know — yet.  But  now — now  I  reckon 
I'd  better  be  going  along  home!" 


CHAPTER  XIX 

IT  was  a  white  night — a  night  so  brilliant  that  the 
village  lights  far  below  in  the  hollow  all  but  lost 
their  own  identity  in  the  radiance  of  that  huge, 
pale  moon;  so  white  that  the  yellow  flare  of  the  single 
lamp  in  its  bracket,  in  the  back  kitchen  of  the  old 
Bolton  place  on  the  hill  seemed  shabbily  dull  by  con 
trast. 

Standing  at  the  window  in  the  dark  front  room  of 
the  house,  peering  out  from  under  cupped  palms  that 
hid  her  eyes,  Dryad  could  almost  pick  out  each  sepa 
rate  picket  of  the  straggling  old  fence  that  bounded 
the  garden  of  the  little  drab  cottage  across  from  her. 
In  that  searching  light  she  could  even  make  out  great 
patches  where  the  rotting  sheathing  of  the  house  had 
been  torn  away,  leaving  the  framework  beneath  naked 
and  gaunt  and  bare. 

It  was  scarcely  two  months  since  the  day  when  she 
had  gone  herself  to  Judge  Maynard  with  her  offer  to 
sell  that  unkempt  acre  or  so  which  he  had  fought  so 
long  and  bitterly  to  force  into  the  market.  And  it 
had  been  a  strange  one,  too — that  interview.  His 
acceptance  had  been  quick — instantaneously  eager — 
but  the  girl  was  still  marvelling  a  little  over  his  atti- 


296  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

tude  throughout  that  transaction,  whenever  her  mind 
turned  back  to  it. 

When  she  mentioned  the  mortgage  which  Young 
Denny  had  secured  only  a  few  days  before,  he  had 
seemed  to  understand  almost  immediately  why  she 
had  spoken  of  it,  without  the  explanation  which  she 
meant  to  give. 

Once  again  she  found  him  a  different  Judge  May- 
nard  from  all  the  others  she  had  known,  and  he  had 
in  the  years  since  she  could  remember,  been  many 
different  men  to  her  imagination.  It  puzzled  her 
almost  as  much  as  did  his  opinion  upon  the  value  of 
the  old  place,  which,  somehow,  she  could  not  bring 
herself  to  believe  was  worth  all  that  he  insisted  upon 
paying.  But  then,  too,  she  did  not  know  either  that 
the  town's  great  man  had  been  riding  a-tilt  at  his  own 
soul,  for  several  days  on  end,  and  just  as  Old  Jerry 
had  done,  was  seizing  upon  the  first  opportunity  to 
salve  the  wounds  resultant. 

And  yet  this  was  the  first  day  that  the  girl  had  seen 
him  so  much  as  inspect  his  long-coveted  property; 
the  first  time  she  had  known  him  to  set  foot  within 
the  sagging  gate  since  he  had  placed  in  her  hands  that 
sum  of  money  which  was  greater  than  any  she  had 
ever  seen  before.  Under  his  directions  men  had  com' 
menced  clearing  away  the  rank  shrubbery  that  after 
noon — commenced  to  tear  down  the  house  itself. 

Time  after  time  since  morning  she   had  entered 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  297 

the  front  room  to  stand  and  peer  out  across  the  val 
ley  at  this  new  activity  which  the  Judge  himself  was 
directing  with  an  oddly  suppressed  lack  of  his  usual 
violent  gestures.  There  was  something  akin  to  apol 
ogy  in  his  every  move. 

It  brought  a  little  homesick  ache  into  the  girl's 
throat;  it  set  her  lips  to  curving — made  her  eyes  go 
damp  with  pity  and  tenderness  for  the  little  white- 
haired  figure  bending  over  his  bench.  He  had  clung 
so  bravely,  so  stubbornly,  to  that  battered  bit  of  a 
house;  to  his  garden  which  he  had  never  realized  had 
long  since  ceased  to  be  anything  but  a  plot  of  waist- 
high  bushes  and  weeds.  Once  when  she  recollected 
those  countless  rows  of  poignantly  wistful  faces  on 
the  shelves  of  that  back-room  workshop  she  wondered 
if  she  had  not  been  disloyal,  after  all.  And  she  had 
argued  it  out  with  herself  aloud  as  she  went  from 
task  to  task  in  that  afternoon's  gathering  twilight. 

"But  it  was  because  of  her  that  he  stayed,"  she 
reassured  herself.  "It  was  because  of  her  that  he  kept 
it,  all  these  years.  And — and  so  he  couldn't  mind — 
not  very  much,  I  think,  now  that  they  don't  need  it 
any  longer,  if  I  sold  it  so  that  I  could  keep  this  place — 
for  him!" 

They  had  been  long,  those  hours  of  waiting.  Not 
a  minute  of  those  entire  two  days  since  Old  Jerry's 
departure  but  had  dragged  by  on  laggard  feet.  And 
yet  now,  with  nightfall  of  that  third  day  she  became 


298  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

jealous  of  every  passing  minute.  She  hated  to  have 
them  pass ;  dreaded  to  watch  the  creeping  hands  of  the 
clock  on  the  kitchen  wall  as  they  drew  up,  little  by 
little,  upon  that  hour  which  meant  the  arrival  of  the 
night  train  in  the  village. 

One  moment  she  wondered  if  he  would  come — won 
dered  and  touched  dry  lips  with  the  tip  of  her  tongue. 
And  the  very  next,  when  somehow  she  was  so  very, 
very  sure  that  there  was  no  room  for  doubt,  she  even 
wondered  whether  or  not  he  would  be  glad — glad  to 
find  her  there.  The  gaunt  skeleton  of  a  framework 
showing  through  the  torn  sides  of  John  Anderson's 
cottage  almost  unnerved  her  whenever  that  thought 
came,  and  sent  her  out  again  into  the  lighted  back 
room. 

"What  if  he  isn't?"  she  whispered,  over  and  over 
again.  "Why,  I — I  never  thought  of  that  before,  did 
I?  I  just  thought  I  had  to  be  here  when  he  came. 
But  what  if  he — isn't  glad?" 

An  hour  earlier,  when  the  thought  had  first  come 
to  her,  she  had  carried  a  big,  square  package  out  to 
the  table  before  the  kitchen  window  and  untied  with 
fluttering  fingers  the  string  that  bound  it.  The  little 
scarlet  blouse  and  shimmering  skirt,  alive  with  tinsel 
that  glinted  under  the  light,  still  lay  there  beside  the 
thin-heeled  slippers  and  filmy  silk  stockings.  She 
bent  over  them,  patting  them  lovingly  with  a  slim 
hand,  her  eyes  velvety  dark  while  she  considered. 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  299 

"Oh,  you're  pretty — pretty — pretty!"  she  said  in 
a  childishly  hushed  voice,  "the  prettiest  things  in  the 
world!" 

The  next  instant  she  straightened  to  scan  soberly 
the  old  shiny  black  skirt  she  was  wearing,  and  the 
darned  stockings  and  cracked  shoes. 

"And — and  you  would  help,  I  think,"  she  went  on 
musing.  "I  know  you  would,  but  then — then  it 
wouldn't  be  me.  It  would  be  easy  for  any  one  to  care 
for  you — almost  too  easy.  I — I  think  I'll  wear  them 
for  him — some  other  time,  maybe — if  he  wants  me 
to." 

But  she  turned  the  very  next  moment  and  crossed 
to  the  mirror  on  the  wall — that  square  bit  of  glass 
before  which  Young  Denny  had  stood  and  stared  back 
into  his  own  eyes  and  laughed.  Oblivious  to  every 
thing  else  she  was  critically  scanning  her  own  small 
reflection — great,  tip-tilted  eyes,  violet  in  the  shadow, 
and  then  cheeks  and  pointed  chin — until,  even  in  spite 
of  her  preoccupation,  she  became  aware  of  the  hungry 
tremulousness  of  the  mouth  of  that  reflected  image — 
until  the  hoarse  shriek  of  an  engine's  whistle  leaped 
across  the  valley  and  brought  her  up  sharp,  her  breath 
going  in  one  long,  quavering  gasp  between  wide  lips. 

It  was  that  moment  toward  which  she  had  been 
straining  every  hour  of  those  two  days;  the  one  from 
which  she  had  been  shrinking  every  minute  of  those 
last  two  hours  since  dark.  She  hesitated  a  second, 


3oo  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

head  thrown  to  one  side,  listening;  she  darted  into 
that  dark  front  room  and  pressed  her  face  to  the  cold 
pane,  and  again  that  warning  note  cam?  shrilling 
across  the  quiet  from  the  far  side  of  town. 

There  in  the  darkness,  a  hand  on  either  side  of  the 
frame  holding  her  leaning  weight,  she  stood  and 
waited.  Below  her  the  house  roofs  lay  like  patches 
of  jet  against  the  moon-brightness.  She  stood  and 
watched  its  whole  length,  and  no  darker  figure  crept 
into  relief  against  its  lighter  streak  of  background. 
Minutes  after  she  knew  that  he  had  had  time  to  come, 
and  more,  she  still  clung  there,  staring  wide-eyed, 
villageward. 

It  wasn't  a  recollection  of  that  half  dismantled 
wreck  of  a  house  under  the  opposite  ridge  that  finally 
drew  her  dry-lipped  gaze  from  the  road;  she  did  not 
even  think  of  it  that  moment.  It  was  simply  because 
she  couldn't  watch  any  longer — not  even  for  a  min 
ute  or  two — that  her  eyes  finally  fluttered  that  way. 
But  when  she  did  turn  there  was  a  bigger,  darker  blot 
there  against  the  leaning  picket  fence — a  big-shoul 
dered  figure  that  had  moved  slowly  forward  until  it 
stood  full  in  front  of  the  sagging  gate. 

And  even  as  she  watched  Denny  Bolton  swung 
around  from  a  long  contemplation  of  that  half-torn- 
down  building  to  peer  up  at  his  own  dark  place  on 
the  hill — to  peer  straight  back  into  the  eyes  of  the  girl 
whom  he  could  not  even  see. 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  301 

She  saw  the  bewilderment  in  that  big  body's  poise; 
even  at  that  distance  she  sensed  his  dumb,  numbed 
imcomprehension.  From  bare  white  throat  to  the 
mass  of  tumbled  hair  that  clustered  across  her  fore 
head  the  blood  came  storming  up  into  her  face;  and 
with  the  coming  of  that  which  set  the  pulses  pounding 
in  her  temples  and  brought  an  unaccountable  ache  to 
her  throat,  all  the  doubt  which  had  squired  her  that 
day  slipped  away. 

Before  he  had  had  time  to  turn  back  again  she  had 
flown  on  mad  feet  into  the  kitchen,  swept  the  lamp 
from  its  bracket  on  the  wall  with  heedless  haste  and 
raced  back  to  that  front  window.  And  she  placed  it 
there  behind  a  half-drawn  shade — that  old  signal 
which  they  had  agreed  upon  without  one  spoken  word, 
years  back. 

Crouching  in  the  semi-gloom  behind  the  lamp  she 
watched. 

He  stepped  forward  a  pace  and  stopped;  lifted 
one  hand  slowly,  as  though  he  did  not  believe  what 
he  saw.  Bareheaded  he  waited  an  instant  after  that 
arm  went  back  to  his  side.  When  he  swung  around 
and  disappeared  into  the  head  of  the  path  that  led 
from  the  gate  into  the  black  shadow  of  the  thicket 
in  the  valley's  pit  she  lifted  both  arms,  too,  and  stood 
poised  there  a  moment,  slender  and  straight  and 
vividly  unwavering  as  the  lamp-flame  itself,  before 
she  wheeled  and  ran. 


302  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

It  was  dark  in  the  thick  of  the  underbrush;  dark 
and  velvety  quiet,  save  for  the  little  moon-lit  patch 
of  a  clearing  where  he  waited.  He  stood  there  in  the 
middle  of  that  spot  of  light  and  heard  her  coming 
long  before  she  reached  him — long  before  he  could 
see  her  he  heard  her  scurrying  feet  and  the  whip  of 
bushes  against  her  skirt. 

But  when  she  burst  through  the  fringe  of  brush  he 
had  no  time  to  move  or  speak,  or  more  than  lift  his 
arms  before  her  swift  rush  carried  her  to  him.  When 
her  hands  flashed  up  about  his  neck  and  her  damp 
mouth  went  searching  softly  across  his  face  and  he 
strained  her  nearer  and  even  nearer  to  him,  he  felt 
her  slim  body  quivering  just  as  it  had  trembled  that 
other  night  when  she  had  raced  across  the  valley  to 
him — the  night  when  Judge  Maynard's  invitation  had 
failed  to  come.  After  a  time  he  made  out  the  words 
that  were  tumbling  from  her  lips,  all  incoherent  with 
half  hysterical  bits  of  sobs,  and  he  realized,  too,  that 
her  words  were  like  that  of  that  other  night. 

"Denny — Denny,"  she  murmured,  her  small,  gold- 
crowned  head  buried  in  his  shoulder.  "I'm  here — I've 
come — just  as  soon  as  I  could;  Oh,  I've  been  afraid! 
I  knew  you'd  come,  too — I  knew  you  would  tonight ! 
I  was  sure  of  it — even  when  I  was  sure  that  you 
wouldn't." 

For  a  long  time  he  was  silent,  because  dry  lips  re 
fused  to  frame  the  words  he  would  have  spoken. 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  303 

Minutes  he  stood  and  held  her  against  him  until  the 
rise  and  fall  of  her  narrow  shoulders  grew  quieter, 
before  he  lifted  one  hand  and  held  her  damp  face 
away,  that  he  might  look  into  it.  And  gazing  back 
at  him,  in  spite  of  all  the  worldless  wonder  of  her 
which  she  saw  glowing  in  his  eyes,  she  read,  too,  the 
grave  perplexity  of  him. 

"Why — you — you  must  have  known  I'd  come,"  he 
said,  his  voice  ponderously  grave.  "I — I  told  you  so. 
I  left  word  for  you  that  I  would  be  back — as  soon 
as  I  could  come." 

He  felt  her  slim  body  slacken — saw  the  lightning 
change  flash  over  her  face  which  always  heralded  that 
bewildering  swift  change  of  mood.  It  wiped  out  all 
the  tenseness  of  lip  and  line. 

There  in  the  white  light  in  spite  of  the  shadows 
of  her  lashes  which  turned  violet  eyes  to  great  pools 
of  satin  shadow,  he  caught  the  flare  of  mischief  be 
hind  half-closed  lids,  before  she  tilted  her  head  back 
and  laughed  softly,  with  utter  joyous  abandon 
straight  up  into  his  face. 

"He — he  didn't  deliver  it,"  she  stated  naively. 
"It  wasn't  his  fault  entirely,  though,  Denny — al 
though  I  did  give  him  lots  of  chances,  at  first  anyway. 
I  almost  made  him  tell — but  he — he's  stubborn." 

She  stopped  and  laughed  again — giggled  shame 
lessly  as  she  remembered.  But  her  eyes  grew  grave 
once  more. 


304  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

"I  think  he  didn't  quite  approve  of  my  attitude," 
she  explained  to  him  as  he  bent  over  her.  "He 
thought  I  wasn't — sorry  enough — to  deserve  it  at 
first.  And  then — and  then  I  never  gave  him  any 
opportunity]  to  speak.  I  would  have  stopped  him  if 
he  had  tried.  You — you  see,  I  just  wanted  to — 
wait." 

Head  bowed  she  paused  a  moment  before  she 
continued. 

"But — but  I  sent  him  to  you — two  days  ago, 
Denny.  I  sent  something  that  I  asked  him  to  give 
you — when — when  it  was  over.  Didn't  you — get 
it?" 

He  fumbled  in  the  pocket  of  his  smooth  black 
suit  after  she  had  disengaged  herself  and  dropped  to 
the  ground  at  his  feet.  With  her  ankles  curled  up 
under  her  she  sat  in  a  boyish  heap  watching  him, 
until  he  drew  out  the  bit  of  a  spangled  crimson  bow 
and  held  it  out  before  him  in  the  palm  of  one  big 
hand.  Then  he  swung  down  to  the  ground  beside  her. 

"I  thought  it  must  have  been  Old  Jerry  who 
brought  it.  I  didn't  see  him,  and  no  one  could  re 
member  his  name  or  knew  where  he  had  gone  when 
they  thought  to  look  for  him.  They — they  just 
described  him  to  me." 

He  turned  the  bow  of  silk  over,  touching  it  almost 
reverently. 

"Some  one  gave  it  to  me,"  he  continued  slowly. 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  305 

"I  don't  know  exactly  how  or  when.  It — it  was  just 
put  into  my  hand — when  I  needed  it  most.  I  wasn't 
sure  Old  Jerry  had  brought  it,  but  I  knew  it  came 
from  you,  knew  it  when  I  didn't — know — much — 
else!" 

She  was  very,  very  quiet,  content  merely  in  his 
nearness.  Even  then  she  didn't  understand  it — the 
reason  for  his  going  that  night,  weeks  before — for 
the  papers  which  had  told  her  a  little  had  told  her 
nothing  of  his  brain's  own  reason.  The  question 
was  on  her  lips  when  her  narrow  fingers,  searching 
the  shadow  for  his,  found  that  bandaged  wrist  and 
knuckles.  Almost  fiercely  she  drew  that  hand  up 
into  the  light.  From  the  white  cloth  her  gaze  went 
to  the  discolored,  bruised  patches  on  face  and  chin — 
the  same  place  where  that  long,  ugly  cut  had  been 
which  dripped  blood  on  the  floor  the  night  she  had 
run  from  him  in  the  dark — went  to  his  face,  and  back 
again,  limpid  with  pity.  And  she  lifted  it  impulsively 
and  tucked  it  under  her  chin,  and  held  it  there  with 
small  hands  that  trembled  a  little. 

"Then — then  if  you  haven't  seen  Old  Jerry — • 
why — why  you — he  couldn't  have  told  you  anything 
at  all  yet,  about  me." 

The  words  trailed  off  softly  and  left  the  statement 
hanging  interrogatively  in  midair. 

Denny  nodded  his  head  in  the  direction  of  John 
Anderson's  house  that  had  been. 


306  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

"About  that?"  he  asked. 

She  nodded  her  head.  And  then  she  told  him;  she 
began  at  the  very  beginning  and  told  him  everything 
from  that  night  when  she  had  watched  him  there 
under  cover  of  the  thicket.  Once  she  tried  to  laugh 
when  she  related  Old  Jerry's  panic,  a  week  or  two 
later,  when  he  had  come  to  find  her  packing  in  prep 
aration  to  leave.  But  her  mirth  was  waveringly  un 
steady.  And  when  she  tried  to  explain,  too,  how  she 
had  chanced  to  buy  up  the  mortgage  on  his  own  bleak 
house  on  the  hill,  her  voice  again  became  suddenly, 
diffidently  small. 

There  was  a  new,  sweet  confusion  in  her  refusal 
to  meet  his  eyes  and  Denny,  reaching  out  with  his 
bandaged  hand,  half  lifted  her  and  swung  her  around 
until  she  needs  must  face  him. 

"You — you  mean  you — bought  it,  yourself?"  he 
marvelled. 

Then,  face  uplifted,  brave-eyed,  she  went  on  a  little 
breathlessly. 

"I  bought  it,  myself,"  she  said,  "the  week  you  went 
away."  And,  in  a  muffled  whisper:  "Denny,  I  didn't 
have  faith — not  much,  at  first.  But  I  meant  to  be 
here  when  you  did  come,  just — just  because  I  thought 
you  might  need  me — mighty  badly.  And  waiting  is 
hard,  too,  when  one  hasn't  faith.  And  I  did  wait! 
That  was  something,  wasn't  it,  Denny?  Only — only 
now,  today,  I — I  think  I  realized  that  my  own  need 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  307 

of  you  is  greater  than  yours  could  ever  be  for 
me!" 

She  sat,  lips  apart,  quiet  for  his  answer. 

An  odd  smile  edged  the  boy's  lips  at  her  wistful 
earnestness.  It  was  a  twisted  little  smile  which  might 
have  been  born  of  the  pain  of  stinging  lids  and  dryer, 
aching  throat.  He  could  not  have  spoken  at  that  mo 
ment  had  he  tried.  Instead  he  lifted  her  bodily  and 
drew  her  huddled  little  figure  into  his  arms.  It  was 
his  first  face  to  face  glimpse  of  the  wonder  of  woman. 

But  he  knew  now  something  which  she  had  only 
sensed;  he  knew  that  the  big,  lonesome,  bewildered 
boy  whom  she  had  tried  to  comfort  in  his  bitterness 
that  other  night  when  she  had  hidden  her  own  hurt 
disappointment  with  the  white  square  card  within  her 
breast,  had  come  back  all  man. 

He  looked  down  at  her — marvelled  at  her  very 
littleness  as  though  it  were  a  thing  he  had  never 
known  before. 

"And — and  you  still — would  stay?"  he  managed  to 
ask,  at  last.  "You'd  stay — even  if  it  did  mean  being 
like  them,"  he  inclined  his  head  toward  the  distant 
village,  "like  them,  old  and  wrinkled  and  worn-out, 
before  they  have  half  lived  their  lives?" 

She  nodded  her  head  vehemently  against  his  coat. 
He  felt  her  thin  arms  tighten  and  tighten  about  him. 

"I'll  stay,"  she  repeated  after  him  in  a  childishly 
small  voice.  "You— you  see,  I  know  what  it  is  now, 


3o8  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

to  be  alone,  even  just  for  a  week  or  two.  I  think 
I'll  stay,  please!" 

There  had  been  a  bit  of  a  teasing  lilt  in  her  half 
smothered  words.  It  disappeared  now. 

"I — I'd  be  pretty  lonesome,  all  the  rest  of  my  life — 
man— if  I  didn't!" 

And  long  afterward  she  lifted  her  head  from  his 
arm  and  blinked  at  him  from  sleepy,  heavy-lidded 
eyes. 

"Why,  Denny?"  she  asked  in  drowsy  curiosity. 
"Why  did  you  go — why,  really?  Don't  you  realize 
that  you  haven't  told  me  even  yet?" 

He  rose  and  lifted  her  to  her  feet,  but  that  did  not 
cover  the  slow  flush  that  stained  his  face — the  old, 
vaguely  embarrassed  flush  that  she  knew  so  well. 
He  groped  awkwardly  for  words  while  he  stared 
again  at  the  bit  of  silk  in  his  hand,  before  his  search 
ing  fingers  found  the  thick,  crisp  packet  that  had  lain 
with  it  in  his  pocket. 

"The  Pilgrim's  share  of  the  receipts  amounted 
to  $12,000,"  had  been  the  tale  of  Morehouse's  suc 
cinct  last  paragraph. 

Then,  "It — took  me  almost  two  months  to  save 
fifteen  dollars,"  Young  Denny  explained  in  painful 
self-consciousness. 

She  understood.  She  remembered  the  scarlet 
blouse  and  shimmering  skirt  with  its  dots  of  tinsel, 
and  the  stockings  and  slim-heeled  slippers.  Her 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  309 

fingers  touched  his  chin — the  barest  ghost  of  a  caress 
ing  contact. 

"Denny — Denny,"  she  murmured,  "I  told  you  that 
night  that  you  didn't  understand.  And  yet — and  yet 
Tm  glad  that  you  couldn't.  It  was  for  me — you 
went.  Don't  you — didn't  you  know  it  was — just  be 
cause  of  you — that  I  wanted  them — at — all?" 
******  ** 

The  circle  in  the  Boltonwood  tavern  convened  early; 
that  night,  and  long  after  hope  had  all  but  died  a 
death  of  stagnation  the  regulars  stuck  stubbornly  to 
their  places  about  the  cheerlessly  cold,  fat-bellied 
stove. 

It  was  a  session  extraordinary,  for  even  Dave  Shep- 
ard,  the  patriarch  of  the  circle  itself,  could  not  recall 
an  occasion  when  they  had  foregathered  there  in  such 
fashion  so  long  after  the  last  spring  snow  had  sur 
rendered  to  summer.  Yet  it  was  largely  mild-voiced 
Dave's  doing — this  silent,  sober  gathering. 

For  he  alone  of  all  of  them  had  heeded  Old  Jerry's 
parting  admonition  that  night,  weeks  before,  when 
the  servant  of  the  Gov'mint  had  turned  from  his  shrill 
defiance  of  the  Judge  to  whip  their  whole  ranks  with 
scorn.  Since  then  Dave  had  been  following  the 
papers  with  faithful  and  painstaking  care — not  merely 
the  political  news  of  the  day  which  invariably  fur 
nished  the  key  for  each  night's  debate — but  searching 
every  inch  of  type,  down  to  the  last  inconsequential 


310  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

advertisement.  And  he  had  been  rewarded;  he  had 
penetrated,  with  the  aid  of  that  small  picture  inset 
at  the  column-head,  the  disguise  of  the  colorful  sobri 
quet  which  Morehouse  had  fastened  upon  Young 
Denny  Bolton.  More  than  that,  he  had  been  reading 
for  weeks  each  step  in  that  campaign  of  publicity 
which  had  so  harrowed  Old  Jerry's  peace  of  mind — 
and  somehow  he  had  kept  it  religiously  to  himself. 

Not  until  two  days  before,  when  Old  Jerry's  de 
sertion  from  duty  had  become  a  town-wide  sensa 
tion  had  he  opened  his  mouth.  The  route  back  in  the 
hills  went  mailless  that  day,  and  for  that  reason 
there  were  more  than  enough  papers  to  go  around 
when  he  finally  gave  the  old  guard  which  was  waiting 
in  vain  for  Old  Jerry's  appearance  upon  the  top  step 
of  the  post-office,  the  benefits  of  his  wider  reading. 

There  had  been  a  fierce  factional  debate  raging 
when  he  came  up  late  to  take  his  unobtrusive  place 
upon  the  sidewalk,  but  even  before  he  added  his 
voice  to  the  din  those  who  argued  that  the  old  mail- 
carrier's  disappearance  could  be  in  no  way  connected 
with  that  of  Young  Denny  Bolton,  who  had  gone  the 
way  of  all  the  others  of  his  line,  were  in  a  hopeless 
minority. 

Their  timidest  member's  announcement  stunned 
them  all  to  silence — left  them  hushed  and  speechless 
— not  for  an  hour  or  two,  but  for  the  days  that 
followed  as  well.  Even  the  red-headlined  account 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  311 

which  had  come  with  that  morning's  batch  of  news 
of  Young  Denny's  victory  and  the  fall  of  Jed  The 
Red,  whom  they  had  championed  under  the  Judge's 
able  leadership,  failed  to  stir  up  any  really  bitter 
wrangle. 

They  sat  in  an  apathetic  circle,  waiting  for  Old 
Jerry  to  come. 

But  no  one,  not  even  Morehouse,  knew  when  Old 
Jerry  disappeared  that  night  after  Jed  Conway  had 
come  hurtling  from  his  corner,  only  to  lift  and  whirl 
and  go  crashing  back  before  the  impact  of  The 
Pilgrim's  leaping  gloves.  At  first  the  plump  news 
paper  man  believed  that  the  surging,  shouting  wave 
of  humanity  which  had  broken  comber-like  over  the 
ropes  to  hail  a  newer  favorite  had  separated  the 
little,  bird-faced  man  from  him.  Only  a  recollection 
of  those  vice-like  fingers  clinging  to  his  arm  a  moment 
before  made  that  probability  seem  unbelievable. 

It  was  a  long  time  before  The  Pilgrim's  brain 
had  again  become  clear  enough  to  grasp  the  mean 
ing  of  the  questions  which  Morehouse  put  to  him, 
but  Denny  did  not  know  even  as  much  as  did  the 
round-faced  reporter  himself.  He  only  recognized 
the  description  of  the  shrill  voiced,  beady-eyed  mail 
carrier. 

To  Old  Jerry  belonged  the  only  comprehensive 
explanation  for  his  sudden  withdrawal  from  the 
scene,  just  at  that  moment  when  his  own  share  in  it 


3 12  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

might  have  been  not  inconsequential.  And  more 
than  that,  his  resolution  to  keep  it  strictly  and  pri 
vately  his  own  grew  firmer  and  firmer,  the  more 
thought  he  gave  to  it. 

In  those  hours  which  intervened  between  the  im 
pulse  which  had  resulted  in  his  modest  retreat  from 
Morehouse's  side,  under  cover  of  the  crowd's  wild 
demonstration,  and  the  next  morning  when  he 
boarded  the  train  which  was  to  carry  him  back  to 
the  hills,  after  a  cautious  reconnaissance  that  finally 
located  Denny  in  the  coach  ahead  of  him,  he  once 
or  twice  sought  to  analyze  his  actions  for  an  explan 
ation  less  derogatory  to  his  own  self-respect. 

"They  wan't  no  real  sense  ner  reason  in  my  hangin' 
around,  jest  gittin'  under  foot,"  he  stated  thought 
fully.  "I  done  about  all  I  was  called  on  to  do,  didn't 
I?  Why,  I  reckon  when  all's  said  and  done,  I  jest 
about  won  that  fight  myself!  For  if  I  hadn't  a-come 
he  wouldn't  never  a-got  that  ribbon.  And  Godfrey, 
but  didn't  that  wake  him!" 

There  was  more  than  a  little  satisfaction  to  be 
gained  in  viewing  himself  in  that  light.  With  less 
to  occupy  his  mind  and  unlimited  leisure  for  elabor 
ation  it  could  have  served  as  the  entire  day's  theme 
for  thought.  But  so  far  as  explaining  his  almost 
panic  haste  to  get  away  the  reasoning  was  palpably 
unsatisfactory — so  unsatisfactory  that  he  cringed 
guiltily  behind  the  back  of  the  seat  in  front  of  him 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  313 

whenever  anyone  entered  the  front  door  of  the  car. 

He  gave  quite  the  entire  day  to  the  problem  and 
long  before  night  hid  the  flying  fences  outside  his 
window  he  decided  that  eventually  there  could  be 
only  one  way  out  of  it.  Sooner  or  later  he  had  to 
face  the  issue:  he  had  to  tell  Young  Denny  that  he 
had  betrayed  his  trust.  Even  that  damp  wad  of  bills 
which  the  boy  had  pressed  into  his  hand,  that  night 
before  he  left,  still  burned  within  his  coat. 

Once  or  twice  he  rose,  during  the  return  journey 
and  advanced  with  forced  jauntiness  as  far  as  the 
door  of  the  car  ahead.  But  he  always  stopped  there, 
after  a  moment's  uneasy  contemplation  of  Denny's 
back,  turned  a  little  sadly  to  the  water-cooler,  and 
returned  slowly  and  unenthusiastically  to  his  seat. 
Twice  when  it  was  necessary  to  change  trains  he 
made  the  transfer  with  a  lightning  precision  that 
would  have  done  honor  to  any  prestidigitator.  And 
when,  hours  after  nightfall,  the  train  came  to  a 
groaning  standstill  before  Boltonwood's  deserted 
station  shed  he  waited  his  opportunity  and  dropped 
off  in  the  dark — on  the  wrong  side  of  the  track! 

Denny  had  already  become  a  dark  blur  ahead  of 
him  when  he,  too,  turned  in  and  took  the  long  road 
toward  town. 

Old  Jerry  followed  the  big-shouldered  figure  that 
night  with  heavily  lagging  feet — he  followed  heavy 
in  spirit  and  bereft  of  hope.  He  was  still  behind  him 


314  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

when  Denny  finally  paused  before  the  sagging  gate 
of  John  Anderson's  half-stripped  house.  Then, 
watching  the  boy's  dumb  lack  of  understanding,  the 
enormity  of  the  whole  horrible  complication  dawned 
upon  him  for  the  first  time.  He  had  forgotten  Dryad 
Anderson's  going — forgotten  that  the  house  upon  the 
ridge  was  no  longer  the  property  of  the  man  who  had 
entrusted  it  to  him. 

When  the  light  behind  that  half-drawn  shade  flared 
up,  far  across  on  the  crest  of  the  opposite  hill,  and 
Young  Denny  wheeled  to  plunge  into  the  black  mouth 
of  the  path  that  led  deeper  into  the  valley,  he  too 
started  swiftly  forward.  He  swept  off  in  desperate 
haste  up  the  long  hill  road  that  led  to  the  Bolton 
homestead. 

The  light  was  still  there  in  that  front  room  when 
he  poked  a  tentatively  inquiring  head  in  at  the  open 
door;  he  paused  in  a  dull-eyed  examination  of  the 
silken  garments  draped  over  the  table  top  in  the 
kitchen  after  he  had  roamed  vaguely  through  the 
silent  house.  But  he  was  too  tired  in  mind  to  give 
them  much  attention  just  then. 

Outside,  buried  in  the  shadow  of  Young  Denny's 
squat,  unpainted  barn,  he  still  waited  doggedly — he 
waited  ages  and  ages,  a  lifetime  of  apprehension. 
And  then  he  saw  them  coming  toward  him,  up  out 
of  the  shadow  of  the  valley  into  the  moonlight  that 
bathed  the  hill  in  silver. 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  315 

They  paused  and  stood  there — stood  and  stared 
out  across  the  valley  at  Judge  Maynard's  great  box 
of  a  house  on  the  hill  and  that  bit  of  a  wedge-shaped 
acre  of  ruin  that  clung  like  an  unsightly  burr  to  the 
hem  of  his  immaculate  pastures. 

Slender  and  boy-like  in  her  little  blouse  and  tight, 
short  skirt  the  girl  was  half-hidden  in  the  hollow  of 
his  shoulder.  Once,  watching  with  his  head  cocked 
pertly,  sparrow-like,  on  one  side,  the  old  man's  eyes 
went  to  the  white-bandaged  knuckles  of  Denny's  right 
hand;  once  while  he  waited  Old  Jerry  saw  her  lift 
her  face — saw  the  big,  shoulder-heavy  figure  fold  her 
in  his  arms  and  bend  and  touch  the  glory  of  her  hair 
with  his  lips  while  she  clung  to  him,  before  she  turned 
and  went  slowly  toward  the  open  kitchen  door. 

Then  he  started.  He  shrank  farther  back  into  the 
shadow  and  edged  a  noiseless  way  around  the  build 
ing.  But  with  the  tavern  lights  beckoning  to  him  he 
waited  an  introspective  moment  or  two. 

"Godfrey  'Lisha,"  he  sighed  thunderously,  "but 
that  takes  a  load  offen  my  mind!" 

And  he  ruminated. 

"But  what's  the  use  of  my  tryin'  to  explain  now? 
What's  the  use — when  they  ain't  nothing  to  explain ! 
It's  all  come  out  all  right,  ain't  it?  Well,  then, 
hedn't  I  jest  as  well  save  my  breath?" 

He  straightened  his  thin  shoulders  and  stretched 
his  arms. 


3 1 6  ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN 

"It  couldn't  a-been  handled  much  neater,  either,'* 
that  one-sided  conversation  went  on,  "not  anyway  you 
look  at  it.  I  always  did  think  that  the  best  thing  to 
do  in  them  matters  was  to  kinda  let  'em  take  their 
own  course.  And  now — now  I  guess  I'll  be  gittin' 
along  down !" 


Before  he  opened  the  door  of  the  Tavern  office 
a  scant  half  hour  later,  Denny  Bolton  stopped  there 
on  the  steps  a  moment  and,  his  hand  on  the  latch, 
listened  to  the  thin,  falsetto  voice  that  came  from 
within.  A  slow  smile  crept  up  and  wrinkled  the 
corners  of  the  boy's  eyes  after  a  while  when  he  had 
caught  the  drift  of  those  strident  words. 

They  had  been  waiting  for  him — the  regulars. 
They  had  been  waiting  for  him  longer  than  Old 
Jerry  knew.  In  the  chair  that  had  been  the  throne- 
seat  of  the  town's  great  man  the  servant  of  the 
Gov'mint  sat  and  faced  his  loyal  circle. 

He  had  reached  his  climax — had  hammered  it 
home.  Now  he  was  rounding  out  his  conclusion  for 
those  who  hung,  hungry-eyed,  upon  his  eloquence. 

"I  ain't  begun  to  do  it  jestice  yet,"  he  apologized. 
"I  ain't  more'n  jest  teched  on  a  good  many  things 
that  needs  to  be  gone  into  a  trifle.  Jest  a  trifle  !  It'll 
take  weeks  and  weeks  to  do  that.  But  as  I  was 
a-sayin' — I  got  there !  I  got  there  just  when  I  was 
needed  almighty  bad.  I  ain't  done  that  part  of  it 


ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN  317 

jestice — but  you'll  see  it  all  in  the  papers  in  a  day 
or  two — Sunday  supplement,  maybe — and  pictures — 
and  colors,  too,  I  reckon!" 


TO  THE   READER: 

Many  of  you,  no  doubt,  often  have  wondered  at  that  hidden 
mystery  which  gives  a  new  author  a  public  and  how  young  authors 
find  publishers  for  their  stories. 

Situated  in  a  magnificent  suite  of  offices,  high  up  in  one  of 
New  York's  towering  skyscrapers  is  a  man  who  has  befriended  and 
helped  to  fame  more  young  authors  than  any  other  in  America — 
Seth  Moyle,  of  the  firm  of  Seth  Moyle,  Incorporated. 

Mr.  Moyle  found  Rex  Beach  and  guided  him  to  a  popularity 
second  to  no  writer  in  America  today.  For  many  years  he  has 
represented  Sir  Gilbert  Parker,  Rupert  Hughes,  Emerson  Hough, 
the  work  of  the  late  O.  Henry  and  David  Graham  Phillips,  and  a 
large  proportion  of  the  important  "discoveries"  in  this  country. 

Publishers  recognize  in  Seth  Moyle  that  peculiar  editorial 
capacity  which  in  the  past  enabled  a  Curtis,  Alden,  or  Howells,  by 
discerning  the  talents  of  writers  hitherto  unknown,  to  enrich  litera 
ture  with  the  names  of  Mark  Twain,  O.  Henry  and  Bret  Harte. 

With  diligence  and  a  persevering  faith,  Mr.  Moyle  has  for  years 
been  searching  for  a  young  writer  who  could  strike  a  new  note  in 
American  story-telling;  who  could  put  that  greatest  of  all  gifts — 
youth,  into  his  works;  in  a  word,  for  the  great  American  author. 

His  address  as  Toastmaster  given  in  New  York  City  at  the 
673rd  Banquet  of  the  Twilight  Club  on  March  loth  has  special 
significance. 

"There  is  one  here  tonight,"  said  he,  "who  comes  to  us  from — 
'condamnation' — I  use  the  word  with  wisdom — but  comes  with 
glorious  success,  because  of  his  spirit  and  his  message.  Through 
out  all  his  writings  is  reflected  the  kindness  and  sympathy  of  the 
Creator  Himself. 

"Exiled  from  an  active  New  York  business  career  at  the  most 
desolate  time  of  the  year,  in  the  loneliness  of  the  Adirondack  wilds 
and  among  the  mountains  and  the  pines,  he  really  learned  to  know 
the  stars  and  glory  of  the  universe  and  the  whole  sublime  scheme 
of  things — learned,  indeed,  to  know  God. 


TO  THE   READER: 

"It  has  been  your  privilege  tonight  to  hear  read  by  the  master 
poet  and  philosopher,  Richard  Wightman,  some  of  his  inspired 
utterances.  In  speaking  of  God,  he  has  exclaimed:  'Friends,  God 
is  your  best  mood!' 

"Throughout  the  Larry  Evans  writings  we  find  reflected  that 
'Best  Mood' — the  mood  that  dreams  of  the  everlasting  hills,  the 
smiling  green  fields  and  the  running  brooks;  of  life,  love  and 
youth,  as  only  unspoiled,  unconquered  youth  can  dream. 

"Left  absolutely  alone  day  after  day,  night  after  night,  month 
after  month,  out  in  the  open,  in  an  invalid's  chair,  thinking  thoughts 
that  brought  hope  and  encouragement  to  all  those  who  have  had 
the  privilege  of  acquainting  themselves  with  the  genius  reflected  in 
his  story,  this  author  produced  'Once  to  Every  Man.' 

"It  was  so  with  Herbert  Kaufman,  who  found  himself  at  San 
Antonio;  and,  too,  with  O.  Henry — a  best  friend  indeed. — Suffer 
ing  made  them. 

"Finally  the  author  of  'Once  to  Every  Man,'  who  sought  the 
wilderness  for  his  life  when  his  physicians  despaired  of  it,  has  not 
only  found  it,  but  in  spite  of  his  affliction  he  has  put  life  and 
hope  into  the  hearts  of  all  who  are  living  with  him  through  his 
works.  In  him  we  see  another  exemplification  of  the  divine  wis 
dom  of  the  Almighty. 

"It  is  hard,  indeed,  to  have  beautiful  thoughts  when  you  are 
condemned  to  a  long,  lingering  illness  and  imminent  death — harder 
still  to  express  them  so  that  the  world  may  share  your  optimistic 
perspective  and  sense  your  mind-state,  but  the  author  of  'Once  to 
Every  Man'  has  done  this. 

"Reclining  in  solitude  up  where  the  mountains  bear  their  naked 
fangs  to  the  north,  where  the  ice-laden  wind  comes  whining  down 
at  night,  with  its  high  soprano  scream,  Larry  Evans  saw  'Conahan,' 
the  first  river-boss  of  Singing  River,  and  gave  to  Hearst's  Maga 
zine  that  vivid  story  of  the  strong  man  of  the  North.  And  then 
came  'Cassidy,'  which  appeared  in  The  Cosmopolitan,  that  re 
markable  story  of  a  tuberculosis  victim,  who,  too,  was  forced  to 
seek  the  wilds. 

"Without  that  enforced  loneliness,  The  Saturday  Evening  Post 
never  would  have  seen  'When  Father  Le  Fevre  Came  to  Singing 
River,'  or  'The  Painted  Lady.'  And  as  a  fitting  climax  from  that 
invalid's  chair  came  the  greatest  story  of  all,  'Once  to  Every 
Man,'  a  prose  poem  that  throbs  with  the  never-ending  wonder  of 
woman. 


"Ladies  and  Gentlemen,  I  present  to  you  America's  young  novel 
ist  of  greatest  promise,  Larry  Evans,  the  author  of  'Once  to  Every 
Man,'  an  author  who,  at  twenty-five,  sells  his  serials  and  short 
stories  on  order  five  years  in  advance,  whose  contracts  and  written 
arrangements  class  him  with  Sir  Gilbert  Parker  and  Rex  Beach, 
and  who  in  my  humble  opinion,  is  quite  as  great  in  his  own  line  as 
was  O.  Henry,  the  master  of  them  all." 


"MY  FRIEND  O.  HENRY1 
FREE 

""Friends?"  said  O.  Henry.  "Why  they  can  be  counted  on  the 
five  fingers  of  my  hand."  It  was  Seth  Moyle's  privilege  to  be 
one  of  the  five.  The  publishers  of  "Once  to  Every  Man"  have 
prevailed  upon  Mr.  Moyle  to  write  for  them  a  real  inside  heart- 
to-heart  biography  of  that  famous  genius's  life,  telling  intimately 
of  their  association  of  many  years  from  the  time  when  he  first 
came  to  New  York  until  when  "in  the  good  old  summer  time," 
with  his  inimicable  whimsicality  he  passed  into  the  Great  Beyond 
with  the  remark,  "Pull  up  the  blinds,  I'm  afraid  to  go  home  in 
the  dark."  Here  is  given  all  the  wealth  of  anecdote  and  story 
that  necessarily  must  cling  to  an  affection  such  as  theirs.  This 
biography  will  be  neatly  printed  and  illustrated  and  will  not  be 
for  sale. 

The  success  of  this  novel,  outside  of  any  financial  consideration 
means  more  to  its  young  author,  in  his  enforced  solitude,  than  any; 
other  thing  in  his  little  world. 

As  an  incentive  for  you  to  recommend  "Once  to  Every  Man" 
to  your  friends,  if  you  have  personally  enjoyed  it,  we  will  send 
you,  free  of  charge, 

"MY  FRIEND  O.  HENRY" 

By  SETH  MOYLE 

providing  you  fill  out  the  blank  on  the  following  page  giving  us 
the  names  and  addresses  of  three  of  your  friends,  wrho  you 
believe  should  and  would  enjoy  reading — "ONCE  TO  EVERY 
MAN." 


REMEMBER 

THIS  IS  THE  ONLY  WAY  YOU  CAN 
OBTAIN    "MY  FRIEND  O.  HENRY" 

THE  H.  K.  FLY  COMPANY, 

263  FIFTH  AVENUE, 

NEW  YORK. 

Please   send  descriptive  circular  of  "ONCE  TO  EVERY  MAN' 
to  the  following  addresses: 

Name  _ „ _ 

Address    . 


Name  _ 

Address 

Name  

Address 


For  which  please  send  me,  absolutely  free,  a  copy  of 

"MY  FRIEND  O.  HENRY." 
Write  your  own  name  and  address  on  the  bottom  line. 


Name  

Address 


A     000128083     3 


